


Douglas County

by awabubbles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, First Time, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 78,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awabubbles/pseuds/awabubbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prison AU. Dean Winchester is a new correctional officer at Douglas County Youth Services where he meets Sam Wesson, a fifteen year old inmate who's been charged with arson and the death of his parents. Dean finds himself increasingly protective of the young inmate, but as his personal life gets more complicated, Dean has to find out exactly how far he'll go to keep Sam by his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ***This story contains references to previous sexual assaults on a minor for multiple characters, including incest. If the subject is triggering please proceed with caution.

 

Dean Winchester tried on his uniform for the first time. It was black. Made him look slim at least, but the material was cheap, polyester, scraped at his thighs and crinkled loudly whenever he moved. Adjusted his crotch. Shifted his belt. Handcuffs, mace, a walkie talkie, and keys strapped across his waist. There was even a badge sewn onto his jacket, on the left side of his chest, over his heart. It was yellow with a sheriff’s star in the middle. Douglas County Corrections embroidered in black. 

A symbol of authority, Dean traced the outline of it and frowned. 

It was the end of the line for Dean Winchester. He’d been kicked out of every other job in Lawrence, Kansas and now he only had five bucks to his name. Felt it burning a hole in his back pocket, could never hang on to money anyways. Dean was used to being broke, had spent his whole life broke. Stole shit if he had to, pawned off every watch he’d ever owned. But this time was different because there was nothing left to sell but his dad’s 67 Chevy Impala and Dean would rather drive both them both off a cliff then part with Baby. But if Dean couldn’t make rent soon he’d have to crawl back on all fours, back to his dad. Dean grimaced; not an option. Had to make this work. Packed the rest of his day clothes into his assigned locker: worn out jeans, black t-shirt, his dad’s leather jacket. His life tucked away into a metal box, about to step into an alien world.

His friend Tom had got him a job as a corrections officer at Douglas County Youth Services. Dean wasn’t sure how he did it, bypassed all the usual background checks and got him in. Tom wasn’t exactly well-liked in Kansas but his dad had money, so he was well-connected. Just a few words to the warden and they hired Dean, sketchy background and all.

Tom was just some guy Dean had given free shots to when Dean tended bar-- why he’d gotten fired from that job, come to think. Tom was a good drinker. That was the extent of their relationship. Though Dean had a feeling Tom wanted more. One of those guys that was only ever gay when he was drunk, had been suggestive to Dean once or twice but never made a move. Tom was blonde, decently fit and could have been handsome if his mouth didn’t hang open in permanent, slack-jawed confusion.

Dean told Tom he’d been fired from some part-time warehouse gig (caught fucking the boss’s daughter but so what it was his 15 minute break, he could do with it what he wanted). Tom said he had just the thing. Two days later he was in a black polyester uniform with mace and an uneasy feeling strapped across his stomach.

Dean dusted off his uniform. Dragged his hands over the sleeves to wipe off the shit that usually clung to him and everything he did. Satisfied, he shut his locker and wound his way through the administrative offices. The heavy smell of antiseptic, something dirty in the walls of this place that couldn’t get scrubbed clean. Gray walls and blue framed windows. Dean noticed it was like a highschool in certain respects. There were classrooms for the kids, he’d seen them earlier. Even those stupid motivational posters with heavy black borders and colored Times Roman font. But Dean was pretty sure you didn’t end up in juvie because you lacked A M B I T I O N.

He pushed open a heavy door with EXIT ONLY painted in red and entered the yard. A well-kept grass plot with a 9 foot tall chain link fence encircling a blacktop where kids in sweat pants were playing basketball, milling about. Tom was waiting for him, outside the fence, wearing the same distinctive polyester uniform. He waved Dean over and started to explain the basics. Part one of his induction into Douglas County Corrections.

The way Tom defined it, his job was to keep order among the ranks. It was like going to battle, the way he divided them: officers and inmates. Coercion, intimidation, necessary tactics in a never-ending guerrilla war for Order and Justice.

"Most of these kids are here on dumb shit, truancy and the like. Only a few on drug possession or anything real interesting,” Tom explained, chewing on tobacco like a cow. "They’re gonna be all ‘yes sir’ ‘no sir’ cause they’re not here long, don’t want to fuck it up, know what I mean?"

Dean nodded stiffly.

"But some of these snots either got nothin’ to lose or their mommas dropped ‘em on their heads. Don’t be fooled,” he warned, spat at the ground between their feet. “Just because you’re not in a state prison don’t think they can’t fuck you up."

“I’ll be careful,” Dean said flatly.

There was no peace between the two sides. Only temporary cease-fires. Dean was to have his eyes open at all times and never, ever trust the enemy.

The enemy, of course, was easy to spot. Anybody under eighteen wearing gray sweatpants and an orange t-shirt (or sweatshirt when it got cold). Each article of their clothing had a letter on it S,M,L, XXL indicating size. The shirts and sweatshirts had PROPERTY OF DOUGLAS COUNTY on the back.

"You’ll do fiiine," Tom drawled. "Just don’t let ‘em forget you’re in charge. Some of the guys I work with want to be friends with ‘em, like big brothers or something? But you can’t, cause these kids…once they get under your skin man, they don’t let go." Tom craned his neck to one side, as if exposing an old scar.

Dean scanned him, found nothing.

"See here," Tom started, beckoned Dean closer and pointed through the chain link fence, at the kids on the other side. Tom had a fondness for memorizing criminal histories, the juicier the better. Everyone was a collectible sports card with statistics and a small bio. He started to recite the record of every inmate on the court to Dean. Some on their way to an impressive resume of life in prison.

"What about him?” Dean asked. Pointed to the only kid Tom hadn’t blabbed about. Skinny, brown hair, shaggy and hanging in his face. Hollow cheeks like something had been sucked out of him years ago. Hadn’t moved this whole time.

"That’s nobody," Tom said, expression curled tight into a fist.

Dean was surprised, but didn’t show it. He didn’t know Tom well enough to judge the reaction, but it belied a history that Tom obviously didn’t want to share. Dean glanced sideways at the kid with his hands in his pockets. Imagined what his particular playing card would look like. A fuzzy picture. Height: approximate. Age: estimate, younger than 17, older than 13. Crime: unknown.

Tom pushed away from the fence, suddenly tired of playing this game. And that was fine with Dean. There was no joy in watching prisoners behind a chained link fence. He followed Tom back inside and reevaluated for the umpteenth time how far away from Kansas that five bucks in his pocket could get him.

Inside the Youth Center Tom passed him off to another officer. Clapped Dean on the back and said he’d be back for him later. Dean was left with Bobby Singer, a man in his late fifties. Corrugated cheeks and a short boxed beard. He was a gruff man who always wore a hunting cap on his head to hide where he was balding. Looked like he’d be more comfortable in the woods, with an orange vest and a hunting rifle.

Bobby assessed Dean like he was scoping him out through a rifle. “You the new kid?” he grunted. Everything he said was a grunt.

“Yes sir,” Dean nodded.

“Don’t call me sir, ain’t my name is it?”

Dean cleared his throat, look appropriately contrite. “Bobby,” he corrected.

“Good. Got a lot to learn then,” Bobby concluded. “Best keep up. Don’t like to repeat myself.”

Bobby brought him to the heart of the correction center, a large gym-like space. Half of a basketball court stenciled in white on the gray floor. The other half was tile, several long white folding tables set up with plastic backed chairs. This was an all-purpose room where the kids in general population ate, studied, and in the cold weather, exercised. On the east-facing wall were the units where the kids slept. White-washed cement. A toilet. Two pairs of beds. Above the first-floor rooms there was a balcony. Upstairs, another row of cells. Same setup.

“Now you’ll get the hang of the ins and outs soon enough,” Bobby began to explain, his mustache twitching slightly to the right of his mouth at the end of every sentence. “Never the same day twice, not really. So what you need to know is safety, alright?”

Bobby looked at him sternly, made sure he was listening. Dean nodded and indicated he understood.

"Now if a fight breaks out," Bobby continued, "it’ll either be out in the yard, or in here. The first rule is: If you’re the only guy on duty and there’s a fight between the kids, do NOT interfere. You call for backup. No matter what they’re doing. Don’t try and act like a hero cause it just puts everybody in danger. Got it?”

Dean judged how good the old guy would be in a scuffle anyways. Figured he was on his own. “Got it.”

"Good," Bobby grunted. "Once you have back up, one officer’s gonna subdue each individual involved. Usually just between two punks so you go up behind ‘em like this-"

Bobby gestured standing behind someone. Threading your arms under their pits and grabbing onto their shoulders before throwing them to the ground. It was a move Dean was familiar with, even before he’d been given official license to use it.

"Just keep that in mind and you’ll be alright," Bobby said. Patted him on the back like he graduated from something.

If there was a second part to his safety lesson, something that involved more than throwing kids to the ground, it ended abruptly as the inmates started to file back into general population. They formed a line with their plastic trays held out for lunch and as they passed, Dean appraised the slop they were being served. Some kind of meatloaf. What might pass for gravy. A few kids glanced at him curiously. Most ignored him outright.

“You friends with Tom?” Bobby asked suddenly. Watched the kids like a hawk, stonewall face never breaking.

“I guess,” Dean answered, noncommittal. “Why?”

“Cause Tom’s a goddamn hothead, that’s why,” Bobby growled. “Got it in with the warden somehow so he acts like it makes him special. But he ain’t. Only difference between him and these boys is daddy’s money and the color of his uniform.” Bobby turned the scope of his rifle back onto him. “And you’re young like him so I gotta know. You gonna be a pain in my ass too, _Dean_?”

Dean laughed at the bluntness. Rolled his shoulders in a careless shrug. “Depends who you ask. My old man thinks I ought to be standing in a line just like that.” He nodded to the row of orange shirts and gray sweatpants. Sound clips of his drunken father playing on repeat.

Bobby shook his head. “State prison. They’d tear you apart there, pick their teeth with your bones,” he concluded.

Dean got the feeling he was being tested. It irritated him. He had to have eyes in the back of his head for the inmates. Now the other officers were firing shots? “Think I’d be fine.” Dean sniffed. “But they’d stuff and mount someone like you,” glanced at Bobby's gut hanging over his belt. "Figure you're already half way there."

Bobby scoffed. A big fat guffaw that shook and jiggled his belly. Bobby lowered the rifle of suspicion and his gaze softened. Dean wondered how a jibe about state prison could have that effect, but didn’t question it; the less people he pissed off around here, the better.

The chatter in the main room grew louder as the kids congregated and ate. At the end of one fold out table, sitting by himself, was that kid again: inmate unknown. The wildcard Tom had refused to name. Out of curiosity, Dean leaned in to Bobby and pointed him out.

"Who’s that?" he asked. 

Bobby followed Dean’s finger and smiled. "That’s Sam Wesson," Bobby said with pride. "He’s here on one count of arson, and two counts of first degree murder."

Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Of all the crimes Tom had listed, no one had been accused of anything that severe.

Bobby nodded slowly. Expected that reaction. “Both parents went up in flames. The state suspects he set the fire that did it.”

“Did he?” Dean asked warily. Watched Sam Wesson pick at his food and eat nothing. Skin and bones.

“Don’t know. Been here going on two years, awaiting trial. They keep pushing his court date back. State demanding more time for discovery. Court-appointed lawyer’s been switched a couple times too. You know kids are only supposed to stay here for 90 days but this one’s just stuck in the system. Tried to move him out a year ago to one of those juvie camps -good behavior they said- but a judge wouldn’t allow it. Said it was too risky for everyone else considering the charges against him. Now he’s here, growing up between these walls like mold.”

Dean absorbed the information. Thought this kid would be a star player in Tom’s deck. Wondered what got him so agitated. "Huh," Dean said lightly. "Tom doesn’t seem to like him."

Bobby laughed loudly. A sharp bark that cut through the cafeteria noise for a split second. Largely ignored, like there was an invisible curtain between officers and inmates. The usual chatter continued.

"Yeah Tom don’t like him," Bobby agreed.

“You know why?”

"Cause Tom’s a spoiled brat. And maybe it was has something to do with him being bit."

“Oh.” Dean remembered the anger in Tom’s eyes. No scars. “Seems like a dumb thing to get so bent out of shape about.”

Bobby gave him a look that said Dean knew shit. “Didn’t just bite him on the arm, son.” He waited for the new kid to fill in the pieces. Dean stared at him blankly. “Bit him while uh-” Bobby raised a fist to his mouth and gestured something akin to sucking.

Dean’s eyes went wide. Mouth open, frozen in disbelief. “ _What_?”

Bobby looked away respectfully. Gave Dean some space to recover. The new kid had a lot to learn. “Tom says he was attacked, so it’s his word against that kid’s. Guess who the Super believed? Shoved him into solitary for months. This is his first day out.” He sighed loudly through his nostrils. “Course if I’d had any proof of it, I’d have cut his dick off myself.”

The floors here were clean enough to eat off of, but the people were rotten as sin. The corruption didn’t start from the bottom up but trickled down from the top like oil, marred everything it touched: the warden, the superintendent, and then little snots like Tom. Bobby had learned just enough to keep himself clean. He could give Dean advice, but Dean would have to learn his own way.

“Careful who your friends are son.”

Dean’s breath was still caught in his throat. The image of Tom’s pants around his waist shoving his dick into some wet kid’s mouth like a punch to the gut. Anger. Betrayal. Hadn’t known Tom _to be like that_ , hadn’t even suspected. Tom smiling, grinning, pretending he wasn’t a monster when _all this time_.

Something else as well, heavy and dark. Memories he’d spent his whole life trying to repress. Dean’s blood started to boil, shock and disgust mixed together. A Molotov cocktail in his veins.

And then a fight broke out. Dean’s introductory training immediately put to the test.

Two inmates suddenly attacked the kid Bobby and Dean had been discussing. They hit Sam Wesson upside the head with lunch trays and tackled him to the ground. A semi-circle of inmates sprang up, shouting and cheering like it was a UFC fight and they’d all placed bets. Instinctively, Dean rushed towards the commotion but Bobby’s hand clamped down on him like a vice. Grounded him.

"The hell did I finish telling you?" he growled.

"Don’t go in alone!" Dean paraphrased. Tried to tear his arm away from the old man. No use. "But I’m not alone. Y _ou’re_ my back up!”

"There’s three of them and two of us _, you idjit_.”

“They’re just _kids_ ,” Dean spat. The shouts escalated.

Bobby narrowed his eyes, could see Dean was itching for a fight. There was a hot fire burning just under his skin, not related to kids clubbing each other with lunch trays. But Bobby didn’t let go. He reached for the two way radio sitting on his belt, like Dean’s. Asked for assistance with one hand, reeled Dean back in with the other. But Dean never tore his eyes from the fight. A dog on a leash.

Moments later, Tom and two other officers ran in to help. Bobby let go and Dean threw himself into the melee. He cleared the sea of jeering faces and jumped onto a table. Picked up one of the kids by the collar of his sweatshirt. Threw him into the waiting grip of a corrections officer.

Then Dean dismounted and grabbed the other instigator, under his arms like Bobby had taught him. Made it under one arm before the kid pulled away and slammed a fist into his face, a little younger than Dean and built the same. Dean saw stars. And something snapped. An unnamed anger. Dammed up. Suddenly flooded his senses.

He threw himself at that kid and they both fell to the floor. Dean kneed in the gut before he gained the upper hand. A nasty right hook for the first punch. Then another. And another. And another. He lost count until Bobby pulled him off.

“Alright that’s enough!”

Dean’s breath in short, ragged gasps. Blood on his knuckles, not his. The kid he’d beat groaned loudly. Was hauled to his feet by another officer. He’d be fine. Dean scanned the crowd, his fists clenched at his sides, heart pounding loudly in his ears. The inmates shrank back. _Too easy,_ Dean thought.

Both of the instigators were cuffed and detained. Sam Wesson still on the floor. Hadn’t raised a finger during the fight. Eyes open but lying very still on his back. Feet together. Arms outspread. Face bloody. A martyred saint.

“Hey," Dean said gruffly. Began to catch his breath again. The war drums fading at the sight of Sam. He stood over him and shook his shoulder. "You okay? Can you stand?”

Very slowly Sam rolled his eyes towards him. He muttered something Dean couldn’t hear. Leaned in closer. “ _My hero_ ," Sam whispered before spitting in his _fucking face_. Dean cursed. Blinded, trying to wipe the spit from his eyes.

That's when Tom swept in like a hawk. Pulled Sam up by his hair and slammed his face onto one of the folding tables, into someone’s unfinished lunch.

"I bet you started this didn’t you, you little shit.” Tom snarled. He had the inmate’s arms pinned behind him. Ground the kid’s face into meatloaf. Ground himself into Sam.

"Get off me!" Sam screeched. Tom’s touch like electricity, sparked something violent in him. Writhed like a snake, desperate to get away. Gravy in his hair but Tom held him firm.

"Not until you tell me who started this!" he insisted. Sam sealed his lips tight, heard a different request.

“He did it!” One of the instigators called out. Got smacked across the head by Bobby.

"Yeah! He jumped us from behind!" concurred the other, received no punishment all.

"That’s bullshit!" Dean barked, glared at the two inmates with bruised knuckles. "Kid was just minding his own damn business when you two attacked him!"

"Is that true?" Tom asked, but Sam refused to confirm or deny. Just stared straight ahead. Dead eyes. Like no one was home.

With a fistful of the kid’s hair Tom yanked Sam back on to his feet and forced him to stand in front of Dean. "The new guy’s trying to look out for you. Aren’t you gonna thank him?"

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Sam hissed. Tried to fight again. Useless.

“Tom,” Bobby warned.

Dean felt his fists itch. Sam’s violent fury, his once. Helplessnes, remembered that too. Limp one second, an animal the next. Dean saw Sam’s future as a parallel to his own. Not pretty. Wished he could warn him. Would probably settle for burying his fists in Tom’s face. Dean was always ready for a fight.

"That’s enough," Tom cut in with a sneer and slapped a pair of handcuffs across Sam Wesson’s thin wrists. He spun Sam around, shoved him towards the other two restrained inmates. "Guess who’se going back to the SHU?" Tom mocked, as the entire party was escorted out of the main room.

Dean stood still as everything else dissipated around him. Inmates bled away from his peripheral vision and disappeared back into the belly of the youth center. Dean tried to figure out what the fuck had just happened. Sam’s spit still on his face, on his lips. Had tasted his blood. Dean scrubbed it off him and looked at the crimson streaked across the back of his palm like a curse.

An eternity later, Bobby’s hand rested on his shoulder. "Superintendent’s gonna want to talk about this. It’s routine.” Careful. Like talking Dean off the edge of a cliff. Saw something during that fight, rage and fire just below his skin. Something eating him from the inside out.

Dean nodded, numb. Let Bobby guide him to the Superintendent’s office and they sat him in a chair, asked about the fight.

Who started it? Two kids.

Do you know why? No.

What did you do? Waited for backup.

And then? Pulled off the first, tried to apprehend the second. He threw a punch, a couple. Defended myself. Punched back.

How many times? Not sure.

Would you categorize your response as excessive? Maybe, no don’t think so.

History of anger problems? Dean laughed, his whole life in a nutshell, jotted down on a tiny white piece of paper. No, he lied, clean as a whistle.

The Superintendent stared down his wirey nose and then excused them both. As they left the office, Bobby watched him carefully.

“Is that it?” Dean asked, didn’t look at Bobby but something in the distance, years back.

“Just about,” Bobby confirmed.

Dean shook his head, face twisted like his insides. “That kid gonna be alright?”

“Yeah.” Bobby confirmed. “Few stitches and he’ll be fine. Kid threw the first punch anyways, and he wasn’t small. You fought back Dean, and you had the right.”

Dean, confused, not the kid he meant. Ran a hand over his mouth. “Don’t know if I’m cut out for this.”

Bobby grunted. “You think anyone is? This is the bottom of the barrel, Dean. These kids come from all over with a load of shit they inherited from their parents. Some got nowhere else to go. Some just don’t give a shit anymore. And do you think we help? Rehabilitate?” Bobby scrunched his face up. “Hell no. Put them in a cell like an animal, feed them slop three times a day, and we’re _surprised_ when they get fed up with it. But you do it because in the end, you are the thin line between these kids and a cold grave.”

Dean looked up at the old man, the wrinkles on his face like rings on a tree, could physically qualify the toll it had all took. “That’s fucked up.”

“Yup,” he agreed. Head tilted back, proud. “Now get yourself home. If I’m lucky, I won’t see you tomorrow.” Bobby stepped back and waved him away. Dean smiled at his gruffness, could handle it better than kindness. Then ducked inside the locker room.

Alone, Dean stripped off his uniform. Each discarded layer a piece of his own armor. Slowly got to something at the core of him, something that had been shook up by today's events.

First the jacket, folded it up and put it in his locker. Dressing up as a corrections officer felt wrong. A case of mistaken identity. All his life Dean had been on the receiving end of ‘justice’. Pigs calling him a thug, throwing him against a building, over the hood of a car while they frisked him. Dean laughed in their faces the whole time. The way Tom described it: war. The way Bobby approached it: protection. Didn’t know where he fell.

Dean unbuttoned his pants. Recalled Sam Wesson’s wild anger and hate. One thing for sure, he’d give anything to keep that Sam kid from going through what he had. Rough hands exploring him, touching him. Cheek stubble and the smell of alcohol on his dad's breath. Hushed whispers. Told to keep quiet, told to keep still. Told he was a good boy as his hand was guided, touched something slick and smooth. Wanted to scream but paralyzed with fear. Grunting sounds, like an ape, his hands suddenly wet and sticky. Then apologies. Kisses. And white hot shame.

Dean punched his locker, his temper at flashpoint again. Tears on his face. His whole body shook.

He couldn’t go home again. Had to make this job work.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Dean showed up the next day with dirty, worn wrinkles creased into his clothes and into his face. He hadn’t been missed, wasn’t even on the schedule yet. So Dean waited outside and lit a cigarette while the Superintendent penned him in. He leaned against the chain link fence where Tom had pointed out all those kids the day before and took a deep drag. Quiet out, too early for the inmates to be in the yard.

Last night had been rough. Dean returned to his motel room with its peeling walls and the mattress that creaked like an old man’s bones, kept up by images of his past.

They had been happy once: his dad, his mother and him. They had a good old slice of that American dream. Been a family, middleclass and happy. It was like something from a friggin’ fairy tale. His mother had had long golden hair and a smile like the sun. She would always cut the crusts off his pb&j and sing “Hey Jude” till he fell asleep.

Mary Winchester was an angel and Dean missed her violently. He thought after 15 years the hole in his chest would ache a little less, he was still splitting apart. A little more every day, and they don’t make a glue for that.

Mary had died when he was about four. She was sick, real sick. He remembered her hair losing its sheen. The softness in her voice turning raspy. The light in her eyes going out with each trip to the hospital. The smell of antiseptic and death hanging in the air as he tried to ask when mommy was coming home. Seeing her hooked up to machines was something he still tried to forget.

When Mary died, his father’s face flatlined. As far as Dean was concerned, the real John Winchester died that day too. A bereft, emptied shell that had been possessed by demons at night: that was his new father. John drank constantly, started to stumble into Dean’s room when he was about eight. He accepted it as punishment for letting his mother die, because so many awful things couldn’t keep happening to someone who didn’t deserve it right? So it went on and on like an old record on repeat until he was thirteen, until Dean finally ran away for the first time. Didn’t go far, just to a friend’s house and crashed for a few days. But it was his first taste of freedom. And on his sixteenth birthday he took his dad’s 67 Chevy Impala and never looked back.

Life since then had been a Johnny Cash song: Baraboo, Waterloo, Kalamazoo, Kansas City, Sioux City, Cedar City, Dodge City, what a pity. _He’d been everywhere, man_. Running as fast as he could, man. He never told anyone what his father had done, could forget about it himself if he drank heavily enough. Drifted through towns like tumbleweed, no direction, no intention except to sleep with every girl that would spread her legs and left them the second they started to care. Because nobody could touch him. Dean had the control he'd never been afforded as a kid, so he held everybody at arm’s length while all that anger and pain wormed itself into his gut, buried itself deep. Until it finally exploded in the face of some kid inside Douglas County Youth Services.

And it had felt good.

Dean took another drag from his cigarette, long and slow just as Bobby Singer emerged from the youth center, headed towards him.

“Look who decided to drag their ass out of bed today,” the old man grunted, stared at Dean’s cigarette, distracted.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Dean smirked.

“You’ll have plenty of time to feel sorry for _yourself_ , where you’re going.” Bobby slapped a file against Dean’s chest. “Solitary, congrats.”

Dean caught the manila folder with both hands, his cigarette pinched tightly at an angle in the corner of his mouth. “What?”

“The SHU, you numbskull,” Bobby kindly clarified. “Long hours of sitting on your ass and reading skin mags. Aren’t you lucky.”

Dean flipped through a stack of logs categorizing inmates, meal intakes, etc. Fucking paperwork. “Yeah, lucky,” he muttered.

“Welcome to the good life,” Bobby mused. He nodded at Dean for a cigarette and Dean thumbed one out of the pack. Bobby lit it and leaned next to him on the fence.

“Nasty habit,” Bobby said, exhaled smoke. “Been meaning to quit. One of these days.”

Dean smiled, conciliatory. “But not today.”

“Not today,” he agreed. “In fact today I’m gonna go home and open up a new bottle of scotch.”

Dean shrugged his brows, impressed. “Nice. Celebrating?”

Bobby adjusted himself against the fence. It rattled. “Yup. Ten years ago today my good old dad died. I like to commemorate the event by enjoying the hell out of myself.”

Dean wasn’t sure if he was allowed to smile. “Damn.”

Bobby nodded sagely. “He was one mean, nasty sonofabitch, Dean. Beat both me and my mother to hell and back. But I’m still here, and he ain’t.” Ding, ding, ding! The victory bell sounding. Bobby the last man standing. “Tried to ask him why on his death bed and he just tol’ me I deserved it, being an ungrateful brat, for how hard he worked. Worked himself to death just for me and if he had to do it all over again he’d have just left my mother at the altar like he’d wanted. I’d never exist. World would be better off.”

Dean scoffed, a common thread that wove itself through the heart of this country: apple pie and shit dads. 

“But that’s it, you know, I was done with him. Had this anger in me, balled up like a fist while he was alive. I was out to get anybody, didn’t even matter what for, they could’ve just looked at me and I wanted to punch ‘em out. And then when he died it just left me,” Bobby made a motion with his hand, like water breaking before a birth. “Thirty-five wasted years of my life son, carrying someone else’s crap.”

Dean watched Bobby, forgot about the cigarette burning slow and hot in his hand. “Is there a point to this?” he muttered. The muscles in his leg spasmed with the urge to run. Only ever felt comfortable when he was on the move.

“Point is we all get dealt a bad hand. Some worse'n others. But we're still here so we got to make something of it.” Bobby threw the cigarette on the ground, crushed it with his foot. Dean watched the embers burn bright and die. “Figure it out,” Bobby concluded, left him there with an empty imperative. It was the sphinx asking Oedipus a riddle. Pointless. Should have asked him who was going to fuck his mother, been a lot more helpful.

Dean finished his cigarette. Smoke filled his lungs, liked the burn.

The Special Housing Unit (referred to as the SHU) was at the east end of the youth center. Tucked back behind everything else, it was one long hallway with 6 blue-framed wrought ironed doors each labeled H-1, H-2, etc.  Every door had both a trap hatch near the bottom for food, and a window hatch that could be opened or closed from the outside. Between each pair of doors there was a clipboard adjacent to the cell. The clipboards listed the name and number of the inmate, the reason for their stay in solitary, the approximate duration of their stay, and any medical needs or notifications.

Across the hallway, behind a long pane of glass was an office littered with stacks of even more paperwork, a set of computers, some filing cabinets and a coffee maker. Inside the office there was another corrections officer, an older woman with her hair pulled back into a tight tail. Dean stepped inside the office.

“You the new kid?” she asked, pointed at the revised schedule and read his name. “Dean Winchester?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Ellen Harvelle,” she introduced, didn’t look up. “Okay kid, here’s what you’re going to do.”

Ellen explained his job in a neat, clipped tone. Dean was to monitor the ’youths’, place them in the appropriate cells and move them when they were eligible to leave. He was responsible for reporting behavior that should be reprimanded (the severity of the behavior would merit different punishments) and for reporting any medical emergencies. It also meant delivering meals 3 times a day.

“One of the youths’ll bring a cart from the cafeteria.” Ellen explained, looked at her watch. “In about an hour. You serve each kid a tray through that hatch, give ‘em about 30 minutes. Then collect the trays and put ‘em on the cart that comes to you. Push it outside the door, some one’ll come by and collect it.” Ellen looked him up and down, wrote him off as a snot-nosed brat, probably said it the same way Bobby did behind his back. “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. Ellen’s dismissal made him want to impress, so he tried to think of something good. “Any medical stuff I should know, about the kids?”

She pushed past him, out of the office and stood in front of cell H-2. Dean followed. Ellen took the clipboard off the wall and handed it to him, the word suicide in big letters. Ellen opened the window hatch of cell H-2 and Dean glanced inside. It was a long narrow cell with white-washed walls, a silver toilet and a thin uncovered mattress. Seated on the mattress was a kid draped in a thick black blanket, holes in the sides where his arms hung out.

“That’s a suicide tunic,” Ellen said. “Concept’s self-explanatory but he’s what we would categorize as high risk. That means you need to keep your eyes open and make sure he doesn’t try anything. No utensils from the cafeteria, no pens. His bed doesn’t even have sheets, just in case. Got it?”

Dean glanced in at the kid again, sitting miserably like a sack of potatoes. He nodded, put the clipboard back. “Yeah.”

Ellen closed the window hatch. “Every kid’s different. And outbursts are normal, but if they ask to see a nurse you can’t deny them.”

Dean absorbed the information. Ellen was hard at every angle, wondered what fire she’d been molded in to make her that way.

“Anything else?” She was anxious to leave.

Dean scanned the clipboards, went from cell to cell and was surprised to find a name he recognized: Sam Wesson. Dean pulled the paperwork and pointed to some scrawling on it. “What’s this?”

Ellen sighed, studied the tally marks under ‘hunger strike’. “He was only out for 12 hours, that’s his file from his last stint in solitary. Been known not to eat.”

Dean frowned. “What do you do about that?”

“Nothing,” Ellen confirmed. “Just report it, they eat eventually. Superintendent reviews the files at the end of the week and determines how long their stay is dependent on behavior. He was in for a long stint _because_ he wouldn’t eat. Super called it an inconsiderate waste of resources. But that kid knows he’d be punished for it. You ask me he _wants_ to be in there.” A sigh, a distant look. Someone who had given up on solving problems and dedicated themselves to managing the waste.

Then Ellen nodded and handed off a pair of keys to him. “You take your breaks when you want ‘em. Just remember anything that happens here is on your watch. So good luck.”

Dean accepted the keys, cold metal on a coiled loop. “Yeah, thanks.”

She was out the door before he finished his sentence. Three seconds later and someone shouted. “Is that bitch gone yet?” Dean turned and looked into cell H-1, some kid snarling like a pit bull. “Fuck her, and _fuck you_!”

Good start.

Dean shut the hatch, shut himself inside the office, a glass pane and cold white walls. For a second like he was in a cell himself. Dean took a deep breath, shouldn’t think like that.

There were two computers to his left. One monitored the doors, an automated system; the other displayed a series of security cameras. None inside the cells and Dean was grateful for that, didn’t want to see some kid pissing out of the corner of his eye.

He spent a few minutes flipping through the stacks of paper left on his desk, didn’t bother reading any of it. He shoved everything into a few stacks regardless of what it was and found a skin mag tucked away in the desk. Smiled, thought of Bobby, guessed he was right. Dean flipped through the magazine, his eyes glazed over like the glossy spreads before he threw it to the side, wasn’t bored so much as agitated. Drummed his fingers on the desk.

Sam Wesson. The name came to him again. Dean glanced at cell H-6. That kid that was caught up in the fight? That just finally got out of solitary? Got sent there because of something awful that happened to him to begin with? Didn’t make sense. Dean ran his fingers through his hair, spun around in his chair, glanced up at the clock. Still forty minutes before lunch, before he had anything to do. Unless suicide boy tried something.

Out of his chair, into the hall again. Dean checked in on cell H-2, opened the window hatch and peeked in. No change. Closed it. Opened it. Nope.

Dean groaned and glanced to his right again. Cell H-6 drawing him forward like a magnet. He peeked inside just to confirm. It was the same kid alright, all gangly limbs and shaggy hair, sitting on a hard mattress, no suicide tunic though. Sam jerked his head up, looked straight at him. Cut lip, bruised eye. Dean shut the hatch, stood there like an idiot who’d got caught peeking into the girl’s locker room.

There were two other kids in that fight. He didn’t know their names but could probably recognize their faces. Dean looked into the other occupied cells: H-3 and H-4. H-5 was left empty. Not them.

Didn’t make sense to Dean. So he stood in front of Sam’s cell again. Hesitated, and opened up the hatch. “What happened to the others?” he asked.

“...what?” Sam, less skittish than before, examined him slowly. Sharp intelligent eyes that belied a cunning from someone forced to grow up too fast. Was already cutting Dean apart and trying to figure him out.

“The other two,” Dean clarified. Was tired of being eyed up by everyone and then dismissed. “The ones that kicked the crap out of you yesterday. Where are they?”

Sam scowled, expression like curdled milk. “How should I know?”

“Well. They’re not here.”

Kid rolled his eyes, bored with him already. “…so?”

“So they threw _you_ in here as punishment,” Dean pressed, irritated. “Why? You didn’t do anything.”

Sam watched him through narrowed eyes, measured voice, gave nothing away. A perfect poker face. “I guess.”

Dean couldn’t understand his apathy. The kind of apathy that lets you lie there and take a beating. He knew Sam’s blood ran hot, somewhere deep. Dean had seen it firsthand, tried to find it just so he wasn’t alone. “ _Huh_.”

Sam’s eyes darted in the dark, a spark of light. “What?”

“No I mean…I get it.” Dean shrugged, made it seem like he was going to leave.

“ _What_?” Pressure behind the question. He had the kid’s interest now.

“You’re scared of ‘em,” Dean concluded. “Suppose I would be too, skinny pencil-neck like you.”

“Go away!” Sam moaned.

A little flame, but quickly smothered. None of the fire from yesterday, and none of the fight. “Fine.” Dean grunted. Shut the hatch but couldn’t stop thinking about Sam on the floor with blood on his face.

Thirty minutes later another kid in the same orange shirt and gray sweatpants left a cart of trays. It was a curry, maybe, some kind of meat and a yellow sauce mixed together with rice and dumped indiscriminately on the tray.

“Room service,” he joked, slipped the food through the trap hatch like Ellen had shown him, sans utensils for suicide boy. Another twenty minutes and he picked up the trays again. But Sam hadn’t touched his food, just like Ellen warned. He glanced at Sam’s clipboard again, the tally marks indicating every day he didn’t eat, rolled up and added to his punishment. Punishment for what, he wondered. Blood on his face, _blood._

Dean threw open the hatch again. “The last time you had food served to you it was someone else’s leftovers shoved in your face. You _sure_ you don’t want to eat?” Wasn’t going to get any cooperation this way but he was pissed and mouthing off, didn’t really care.

“Go. The fuck. Away.” Sam growled, didn’t look at him.

A spasm in his muscles, the urge to lash out. But then. “Fine. I’ll have it.”

Sam shot him a look, confused. “You want _prison food_?” like Dean was slow.

Dean stood tall and arched his shoulders back. Not that Sam could see his gesture through the narrow window. “No,” he said. “But it’s not going to look like you starved yourself on my watch.”  

Dean closed the hatch again, picked up a plastic spoon and stubbornly shoveled the paste into his mouth. Just to prove a point. But he didn’t realize how hungry he was, hadn’t eaten for about a day. No money except for five bucks and he was saving that. Had fed himself on tap water, cigarettes and a bag of chips he’d stolen from a convenience store.

“I didn’t _say_ you could do that!”

Dean chewed slowly, glanced at the talking door. Sam’s voice closer now. “Gonna do something about it?” he challenged through several inches of iron.

Sam’s frustration leaked through the sides. “You’re a real loser, you know that? Can’t afford anything else so you’ve got to steal my lunch? ”

Dean paused. Surprised some kid in juvie could make him feel more white trash than he already was. “It’s not like that.” Couldn’t think of a better come back. Hated how exposed he felt and retreated back into the office. Half-finished food, like sand in his mouth. Threw the rest away and put the empty tray back on the cart. Pushed it out into the hallway and walked back into the SHU, footsteps echoing.

“Maybe you saw that fight and thought I was some weak punk but I don’t give a _fuck_ what you think.”

Dean paused. Cell H-6 talking to him again.

“I’m not afraid of those kids,” Sam insisted. “And I’m sure as hell not afraid of you!” Dean took a step closer to the door as Sam continued. Heard the anger that he had wanted, felt like shit about it now. “I know guys like you. Okay? There’s plenty of you. You’re bullies cause your moms didn’t hug you enough or something. But I don’t care. _You’re_ weak. _You’re_ scared. _Not me_.”

Dean remembered the way Sam screeched at Tom’s touch. The hate buried deep. Sam was lying to himself, the same way Dean had been for years and years. “Not you huh?”

“ _No._ I’m _better_ than you.”

Dean opened the window again. Sam’s face framed in the opening; surprised he had summoned Dean from behind the iron hatch. He stared at the kid, thought of all the ways he could defend himself, straighten this little snot out. But it fell flat. Dean sighed. “Look, kid. I’m just trying to get you out of here alright? You didn’t do anything wrong. You shouldn’t be stuck in a cage. End of.”

Sam’s ire clouded, he stepped back. Re-evaluated Dean. “You’re the _new_ guy right?” Sam asked quietly. “What was your name?”

“Dean,” he answered. His id a weight around his neck.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam said, tasted the shape and sound of it in his mouth. “Well, _Dean_.” Sam leaned in closer, as close as the glass would allow. Then sharp and high like a cat he hissed: “ _Go fuck yourself_.”

Sam spit at the glass and Dean jerked back in surprise. Then Sam pulled off his shirt --not as skinny as Dean first thought, muscles, lean but taut, could have at least taken one of those kids but he didn’t why not?—and draped the shirt over the window hatch.

Dean gaped at the blacked-out window, Sam’s spit dripping down in the corner. He slammed the hatch closed. _Fucking kid._

__

The Impala revved down a dirty Kansas street, 50 miles per hour in a 30 mile zone. It was a fifteen minute drive from the detention center to the motel room Dean was renting on nothing but charisma. It was a short drive, too short. Not enough time on the road. Dean was dying to get back on an open stretch of highway and let this place eat his dust. Five bucks wouldn’t get him far but it could, _he could_. The option hung low over his head like the setting sun. A flock of cackling geese wheeled and turned, lost its formation, righted itself through some internal compass and headed north. Dean drove towards his motel, in the long run didn’t know where he was headed.

In his rented room Dean discovered he wasn’t alone. A familiar woman sat on his bed. Brunette, long legs and designer clothes.

“I let myself in,” she purred, slid off the cheap sheets. The necklace she was wearing cost more than a month in this dump. It glowed seductively in the light of a halogen bulb screwed above their heads, no covering. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“Don’t have much choice do I?” Dean grunted, tossed his dad’s leather jacket on the back of a chair. He couldn’t stop Bela Talbot even if he wanted to. Didn’t know anyone that could. “What are you doing here?”

“What’s that?” She laughed, approached like a cat and kneaded the front of his shirt with her acrylic nails. Too familiar with him, but he didn’t mind the touch, wanted it actually. Long fucking day. “I chase you down, halfway across the country, and you can’t even say hello?”

She kissed him and Dean didn’t resist, tasted her pink lipstick and the French perfume he could never pronounce.

“Hey,” he said after she pulled back. She smiled at Dean like he was a dog that had obeyed a command. She’d made it sound like she was there just for him, but Dean knew better than to trust Bela.

Bela Talbot was orphaned at a young age, a car crash that killed both her parents. It was okay, she said, because her father was rotten to the core, touched her. Mother knew about it and did nothing, they  _deserved_ to die. It was a shit thing to have in common, not that he ever told her. Bela’s family was filthy rich but the fortune she was to inherit had been all tied up in a trust fund until she hit eighteen. Dean met her at a mall, shoplifting. Liked the easy way she smiled. Had to chase her down after she lifted his wallet.

She was a lit fuse and they exploded together.

Life was one big thrill for Bela, stealing, smoking, inhaling, running away from everything because nothing could catch her. Even Dean was a thrill, some poor kid from Kansas in an old car. Just another pretty jewel she picked up because she could.

Dean was jealous of her. She had no ties, she could go anywhere, and everything she had was new. Dean still had his dad’s car, his leather jacket, and the guilt of wanting his father to be a distant memory. Bela felt like real freedom. He told her that once and she laughed at him, laughed and laughed, left him the second she turned eighteen. Laughed and laughed.

“I’m in town for a few nights. Business. Thought you might like it if I stay with you,” she said.

“And if I say no?”

She kissed him again, pressed her body against his and he relented, gave in to familiar memories. He picked her up, laid her on the bed. She tasted like the highway at night.


	3. Chapter 3

 

The next morning Dean went back to his post in solitary and relieved the overnight guard.

“Any trouble?” Dean asked, wondered if he was the only one kids spat at.

“Nope,” the officer said. Dean glanced at his id, Rufus. Old man like Bobby with a mustache that stretched out to his jawbone, a thin gray strip of a beard from his lip to his chin. Talked to Dean like he was really talking to himself.

“The kid in H-6 obstructed his window. That’s…a violation of something, right?” Had a lot of questions, not all of them about the kid in H-6, but that was the one he asked.

“Probably.”

Dean waited for elaboration, but there was none. Great, another big talker. “Did you remove it?”

Rufus strained his head to look around Dean. The hatch to every door closed. “Didn’t notice anything, tell the truth.”

Dean’s nostrils flared, guessed no one had even looked. “Hung his shirt over the window,” he explained. “Is there protocol for that? Look, see?” Dean spun on his heel and stood in front of Sam’s cell, opened up the window hatch to show Rufus.

No obstruction though. Sam was clear as day, standing in front of the toilet. Back was to him, pants below his waist, a window of skin framed by his shirt and waistband. Two ass cheeks. Strangely feminine.

Dean slammed the hatch, eyes wide with an image he shouldn’t own.

Rufus stood in the entrance to the office and looked Dean over curiously. “Didn't catch that. Somethin’ wrong?”

“No.” Dean said, brusque, as he put distance between himself and cell H-6. “Nothing.”

Rufus nodded slowly. “Protocol is you go in an’ remove it. Goin’ shirtless for a bit ain't gonna harm them you know? But you got to write it down. See these computers? They register every time the doors open. Gotta note why cause Super’s gonna want to know. Reports straight to the warden. Tight ship.”

Dean nodded, didn't hear a word the other guard said.

Rufus gathered his things and left. Dean sat down in the office, blood pumping. He could still taste Bela on his tongue, pungent, sweet. Sex.

Fifteen minutes into his shift and Dean already needed a cigarette break. Mouth was dry like a desert. Hand wouldn’t stop fidgeting. Thought about it the second he sat down and couldn't stop. This ache, this need. It was an easy fix though, had a name and a price: pack of Red & Whites for seven bucks (can you believe that?). Dean was low on his last pack but he was in a turmoil that would only be satisfied by the inhalation of tar and nicotine into his blood.

Something about this morning already made his skin itch.

He ducked out of solitary and passed through the administrative offices. Headed towards that solemn red EXIT sign that led to the yard when Tom emerged from the locker room, intercepted him with a lopsided grin and a hand on his shoulder. Dean stared at it like a cockroach had landed on him.

“Hey, pal! Heard they put you in solitary.” Tom patted him, the way he always did when they drank. Like they were still friends. “Sucks. You were a champ out on the floor the other day, ought to have you out there just to scare the kids into place. How you holding up?”

Tom wasn’t a man anymore but some dark shadow from Dean’s past, the thing that had been haunting him for years. Tom was all those nights when Dean was helpless, too small and young to defend himself from his father's searching hands. And to claim his childhood back, all Dean had to do was reach out and choke the ever-living fuck out of Tom. Squeeze his hands around his throat until the lights behind Tom’s bright blue eyes went out. 

Some places in the deep south still called that due process.

Even if Tom hadn't been the one to hurt him, personally, it was close enough. Tom was the right kind of monster, Dean the right kind of man. And he knew hurting Tom would make something in him feel better, like a balm soothing a burn. What Tom didn't know, that Dean was desperate for that burn to go away.

“Fine,” Dean said, hands clenched at his sides. There were two lingering officers in the hall that would try to stop the pair if a fight broke out. Debated if it was worth it. Because when Dean lashed out-and it was a when not if-he didn’t want to be stopped.

“Nobody giving you any trouble?”  Tom mined for more information, oblivious to any danger.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Well, kids in cells, nobody to punch I guess.” He laughed.

A right hook under the chin, Dean thought. Maybe Tom would even bite his tongue on the way down, that same grin painted red. Looked around again but there was still too many people. No. Would bide his time.

Dean cleared his throat, cleared his thoughts of blood and cum. “Those kids,” he asked. “The ones that started that fight? Noticed they weren't in the SHU.”

“They’re back in general population. The one you sucker punched had three stitches on his lip, right here.” Tom pointed to his grinning face, practically an invitation. Jesus. Should get a _fucking medal_ for his restraint.

Dean had to stare at a wall just to avoid Tom flashing his pearly whites, avoid the temptation.

“But why? _They_ instigated the whole thing.”

Tom rolled his eyes, hadn’t expected Dean to be a bleeding heart. “We got limited resources here, okay? Only so much manpower. And besides, that _Sam_ kid is the real troublemaker. The Super decided it would be easier to keep him where other kids can’t get at him, you know? Give him some time to heal.”

Dean parroted the phrase. “Time to heal?” Ridiculous. Looked down his nose at Tom and swung his next sentence like a judge with a gavel. “So it has nothing to do with him fingering you as a pervert?”

That easy, self-assured smile slipped from Tom’s face. Gave Dean _some_ satisfaction. “What?”

He moved into Tom’s space with predatory intent. “This isn’t punishment for him not sucking your cock, is it Tom? The day he gets out of solitary for it. You lie and get the Super to put him right back in while letting those other kids go? Cause its sure starting to _look like that_.”

Anger flashed in the pits of Tom’s eyes. Pupils widened. Teeth bared. “ _Fuck you, you little prick_!” He hissed, tried to keep his voice low, hyper-aware that they had started to draw attention. “I don’t give a _fuck_ what you heard because I didn’t do anything, okay! That _animal_ threw himself at me. Invented all these lies!” Tom stepped back, eyes alight, took a second to compose himself. “I know I’m not very popular around here, and some people are gonna take what happened and make it seem like…But I don’t _fuck kids_ okay?”

Dean, his face a wall of stone, said nothing.

Tom rubbed his eyes and made his final appeal. “Don’t get _protective_ over that kid okay? He doesn’t deserve it-he’s fucking crazy! If I made the decisions he’d be in an adult prison, that’s how _messed up_ he is!”

Dean saw nothing but a rat that had been cornered, trying desperately to escape. “I’ll keep my distance,” he concluded, nodded at Tom. “And so should you.” Friendly advice, a veiled threat.

Tom sighed, lowered his head. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.” Suddenly dug into his polyester jacket and pulled out an envelope. “In that case, you should deliver this.” He held it out to Dean. Addressed from a law office in Lawrence to Sam Wesson. Dean noticed it had been opened.

“They’ve got to open every letter,” Tom explained, had an explanation for everything. “In case someone from outside mails in contraband. But it’s clean, from his lawyer. They're trying to arrange a new court date.”

Dean plucked the envelope from Tom’s hands. “You got to _read_ every letter too?”

Tom smirked, shameless. Had already brushed off Dean’s accusations and didn’t think anything more of it. Idiot. “Hey, some juicy shit you wouldn’t believe. This one kid’s been corresponding with Charles Manson for months. Calls him a personal hero.” Sniffed. “So you’ll deliver it?”

Dean turned the envelope over in his hands, wary. “I guess.”

Tom gave his thanks, finally left Dean alone.

The ache came back. The urge for a cigarette even stronger now. Dean swallowed it down though. Had resisted the last temptation, could resist this.

He headed back to the Special Housing Unit and passed through general population on the way. The gym was empty now; it was the inmates’ hour to spend outside. He noticed Bobby sitting behind a semi-circular desk and Ellen leaning on the other side. They talked, Ellen smiled, intimate. Dean figured he should keep walking but too late. Ellen had spotted him.

“You lost?” she asked. Heard ‘beat it kid’.

“Let him alone. He’s got nobody but those kids back there.” Bobby waved him over.

Dean approached, nodded to them both. “Bobby. Ma’am.”

Ellen shook her head and Bobby laughed. “She don’t like ma’am,” he explained.

“It makes me sound like an old maid,” Ellen complained. “May not be a spry as I used to be, but I’m nowhere near retirement. Anyways, I’ll leave you boys to it,” Ellen concluded, pointed a finger at Dean. _“You_ had best get back to your post. Soon as possible you hear?”

Dean nodded and when Ellen left he turned to Bobby with a mischievous grin reserved for gossip.

“So are you two uh…” he shrugged his brows, the universal sign for a torrid affair.

“Nah,” Bobby denied, tilted his head back and scrunched his face. “She just got through a messy divorce. Besides, wouldn’t want an old fart like me.”

Dean shook his head, remembered the smile that had softened Ellen’s face. Didn’t even know she could smile. “Ask her out,” Dean suggested, leaned on the counter. “What’s the worst she could say?”

“No,” Bobby answered. Thought about it. “ _Hell_ , no.” Thought about it again. “Hell no, wait here while I get my pistol.”

Dean raised a brow.

“She shot her last boyfriend,” Bobby explained. “Sure he was a creep, certifiable, but you see my hesitation.”

Dean didn’t. “All I mean is I think you’ve got a shot.” He smirked. “Without _getting_ shot.”

“You’re young Dean, you think everybody’s as horny as you are. But things change when you get older, it gets harder to move on.”

Dean tapped his fingers on the counter casually. “Or just harder to get it up?”

“Oh you think you’re so damn funny don’t cha!” Bobby grabbed an empty form in his hand, crunched the paper into a ball and threw it at his head. Dean ducked, laughed. Rounds of paper tossed over the edge, bouncing on the tile floor.

Dean abandoned his cover, scrambled out from under the desk to grab some ammo for return fire when the envelope Tom had given him slipped out of his jacket. He froze. Two paper balls hit him in the head, then Bobby’s voice. “What’s that?”

“Mail,” Dean said, scooped up the envelope in one hand, the crumpled papers in the other. He approached the counter and dumped it all in front of Bobby. “Tom said it goes to the inmate in H-6.” Didn’t want to say his name.

“ _Tom said_ huh?” Bobby frowned, grabbed the envelope. “Legal mail, boy. And look it’s opened.”

“He said you guys had to open up mail, check for contraband.”

“Yeah everything _but_ legal mail. My guess this is old.” Bobby pulled out a lined piece of paper that had been torn out of a notebook, held it out to him. “Does that look like letterhead from a lawyer to you?”

Dean scanned the scrawled words.

_Did you like my gift? That’s what you get for not playing nice._

“Tom’s handwriting?” Bobby asked. Didn’t bother to read it, didn’t want to.

“Who else?”

Bobby sighed. “Take it to the Super,” he concluded, stared pointedly at the evidence in Dean’s hand. “That boy was trying to trip you up. Use you to pass notes like this is a gotdamn highschool.”

Dean smoothed the note out on the counter. Chicken scratch in red ink vibrated against the page.

“Ain’t promising nothin’,” Bobby continued. “But you should report it.”

Dean licked his lips, dry, nodded. “Thanks Bobby,” breathless, like he was chasing after something.

“Be careful, kid.”

The Superintendent was a thin, wiry man with a nasally voice and a dead look in his eyes. Alastair was in charge of supervising security and carrying out disciplinary procedures, the latter of which he took very seriously. Dean had been here what? a day, day and a half? And already he’d heard whispers of kids being sprayed by hoses at full blast, salt rubbed into wounds, and other vicious details Dean chose to forget.

He recalled his last conversation with the Super, after the fight in the cafeteria. Sharp, brutal questions, missed the point of the fight entirely but was very particular about every scratch and bruise inflicted on Dean and the kids. Wrote down every last wicked detail. Looked sore he hadn’t been there to watch.

Dean remembered Alastair hadn’t been interested in him or even his ‘anger problems’, barely looked up at him. So he was surprised the Super remembered him at all when he knocked on Alastair's door later that afternoon.

 “Ah, Dean,” Alastair said, drew out the last part of his name like pulling it through a straw.  “Thought you’d left us already. Wasn’t sure how long you’d stick around.”

Dean hesitated. “I need to speak with you.”

“Of course.” Alastair said generously and motioned for Dean to sit in front of him. “I live to serve, Mr. Dean. Winchester.” Extended syllables, like a snake hissing.

Dean took a seat in the hard backed wooden chair in front of Alastair’s desk. He scanned the office casually, recalled some of the artwork he’d seen the previous day. Hadn’t thought anything of it then, was too focused on the aftermath of that fight. But now, in a different light, Dean realized the prints and photographs that decorated Alastair’s office were all of medieval torture devices. There were illustrations of the condemned being stretched, cut in half, drilled open, skewered, drowned, and tortured in dozens of devices that humanity’s darkest minds had invented. Most notably there was a framed photograph of a chair, not unlike the one Dean was sitting in now, but with hundreds of rusty metal spikes on the seat, back, and arms, leather straps to keep the tormented soul in place.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. His skin started to prickle, like the tips of those spikes in the photograph were pressing into him. “I’m here to report Tom, sir. He’s been trying to pass threatening notes to the kids in my section. I have proof right here.” Dean took out the envelope he’d been given, the note folded neatly inside. 

Alastair gasped loudly in mock surprise, made Dean tense in his seat. “Oh. A threat!” He grinned from ear to ear and gingerly picked up the envelope, wiggled his eyebrows like a villain in a B horror film. “Goodie, goodie. Let’s see what we have here.” He peeled back the envelope as if unwrapping a Christmas gift, removed the note, and enthusiastically read it aloud.

Dean scowled as the scribbled words were repeated back to him in a cheery tone. _The fuck._

Afterwards Alastair sighed, folded the note in quarters with a woeful shake of his head. “I don’t know Mr. Winchester. As far as threats go that was… _disappointing_.”

Clenched fists, gritted his teeth. “It _is_ a _threat_ ,” Dean insisted. “It’s a threat against that kid. That kid that Tom’s been stalking. Abusing. That he, that he-” Dean’s mouth shut like a vice, suddenly couldn’t say the words. Eleven years, could never say the words.

“That he tried to _rape_?” Alastair clarified. Careless, like an easy fact he knew all along. Like it meant _nothing_.

Dean’s nostrils flared, leather straps across his chest, metal spikes piercing his flesh now. And then Alastair’s laugh, a dry, wheezing laugh. The wind whistling through a bag of bones.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” the Super apologized after a moment with an insincere grin. “This is obviously a very _emotional_ moment for you. But I can’t be bothered with a bit of hanky-panky.”  

He took the envelope with the note inside and tore it slowly in two, tore something in Dean as well. Dean shot to his feet, red hot fury pumping through his blood, practically shaking from it. Wanted to throttle Alastair, reach out and choke that smile off his face, the urge to punish Tom compounded. Wanted to shout and scream and tear apart flesh and bone until someone finally heard him. _God, he’d been screaming for years_.

Alastair was calm in the face of Dean's anger. In fact admired Dean like a fine oil painting; the appreciation of an artist that had just started his work, could see the future potential.

“You know. I didn’t want to put you in solitary, Mr Winchester. The way you responded in that fight, hmmm.” The Super tilted his head back with a smile, tasting fine wine. “I expressed my concern that your talents might get wasted on…trivial things. But, sadly, it’s out of my hands now. Orders from higher up, you see.” Alastair tutted and shook his head. He picked up a pen and began filling out a stack of forms.

Dean stood there, still vibrating with violence. Didn’t know what to do. His rage seemed pointless, worthless. Felt about the same.

It was several agonizing moments before the Super finally looked at him, annoyed he was still there. Flat, harsh. “You may _go_ now.” The Super waited for Dean to lash out, an expectant smile curved the edge of his lips. This whole encounter just a part of some sick game.

Dean bumped into the edge of the torture chair in haphazard retreat. He ran through the administrative offices, burst through the EXIT doors and stumbled into the yard. Sun, bright. Kids in the yard, loud. Dean turned and ran. He ran down the long slope of manicured grass, onto the parking lot blacktop where his '67 Chevy Impala sat like an oasis in the desert. Jiggled her handle, locked. Started to search for his keys, a sudden panic rising in his gullet, shame, fear. No keys. No exit. No escape. Where? Where? Where?

Slammed his fists on the hood of the car, face hot like the Impala’s surface, tears trickling down the sides. Felt so fucking stupid, so fucking _helpless._ Tom could do whatever he liked without repercussion. No one was going to stop him. No one could. Dean had tried and the Super played him like an instrument he’d personally tuned. Slammed his fists again and again, cursed.

What was the point of any of it? Corrupt pieces of shit that delighted in the fucking torture of _kids_. Bobby made it sound like he was responsible for something, the line between ‘these kids and a grave’ but they were buried the second they came here weren’t they? Dean was a pallbearer, took a handle and guided that soul into an nine-by-five grave. Didn’t want to be a part of this anymore.

The highway was calling him. Dean could feel the thrum of the steering wheel under his fingertips, the resistance of the gas pedal as he revved up his baby to a smooth-cruising 90mph, the sound of Led Zeppelin blaring on the local station. Another town where no one knew his name and the girls still smiled, sweet as pie. Why not keep running?

“Dean?”

Dean jerked his head back. Saw Ellen standing at the edge of the blacktop, worried eyes, furrowed brows. He turned his back to her, cursed again and wiped at his eyes as she approached.

“Dean.” She repeated, gentle, a hand on his shoulder. But Dean shrugged it off roughly. “You goin’ someplace?” Less gentle.

“I don’t know.” Dean refused to look at her, just stared at his reflection in the window. Never quiet liked the man he saw looking back, still too much like that scared little eight year old.

“Saw you out in the yard,” Ellen explained. “Looked like a spooked horse.” She waited for him to fill in the blanks but Dean didn’t move. “Everything all right?”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah,” he lied. “Fine.”

Ellen couldn’t decide if she wanted to mother Dean or slap him upside the head. “Bobby said you went to go see the Super. Something about Tom?”

He nodded stiffly, still frozen to the spot.

Ellen leaned against his Impala. “Explains somethin’, I guess. That fella’s one mean, nasty sonuvabitch Dean. Gets in your head somehow. Don’t know how he does it but you wouldn’t be the first to come out of his office like you’d spent three days on the rack.” She tilted her head, sympathetic. “Guess it was worth a try, though?”

“Was it?” Dean threw back bitterly. “This uniform is worthless, Ellen. We don’t help a _goddamn thing_.”

Ellen stared him down, unimpressed, like he was a child having a tantrum. “You want to feel like you’re making a difference in the world then go join a charity, Dean. This is a prison, end of the day. We don’t pick and choose guilty or innocent but we do get them fed, patched up, and tucked into a bed. And Lord knows the system isn’t perfect. But Dean if there’s something in the pit of your belly that’s telling you there’s something wrong, then I don’t know what other reason you need to stay and fix it.” Ellen stood tall, pushed away from the Impala. “Running away in this beat up old car of yours is no solution. Might feel good now, but it’ll eat at you in the long run.”

Dean studied the hard line of her face, old woman, always right. He nodded slowly and accepted that his future was set like a wet cinder block drying around his ankles. The highway would have to wait, but he didn't have the resolve to go back inside that prison, not yet.

Dean fumbled inside his jacket, removed a pack of Red & Whites and a lighter. Slipped one into the corner of his mouth. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Been wanting one of these for like, ever.”

Ellen wrinkled her nose as Dean lit up. Tiny hint of amusement, like everything might be alright one day. “You and Bobby,” she sighed, shook her head and hiked her way back up the yard. The kids had just started to pour back inside.

Dean shut his eyes and inhaled, the sweet rush of nicotine seeping into his veins. Nerves calmed, muscles relaxed. Exhaled with a long satisfied sigh and laid his head back on the Impala. A bird cried out, flew over his head and Dean wished that was him. Gliding through the breeze, wings open, arms extended, come what may. He’d been running in his car for so long that he’d mistaken that for a kind of freedom. But he could see the shackles on his feet now, stretched half way across the country. All the space to move in but still caged.

Ellen’s words echoed a sort of inevitability. He could drive off and leave this town in his dust but he’d never really outrun it and a hundred cigarettes would never cure it.

Dean inhaled again. Long and slow, tapped the last embers of his cigarette, watched them fall to the earth. Ashes and dust. This ache in him, set deep.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Dean resumed his shift in the Special Housing Unit. Smelled of smoke and despair.

He found a cart outside the unit, trays stacked with cold food because he’d been gone too long. Shit. Dean grabbed the cart and nudged it into solitary. He heard voices over the squeak of rusty metal wheels, not the usual hollering of bored teenagers, but hushed threats. Then a strangled sob. Something was very wrong.

And that’s when he saw it, cell H-6 swung wide open. Dean looked around for any other officers but even from here he could tell the office was empty. Panic flooded Dean’s veins. Who had opened the door?

Dean abandoned the cart and raced towards the cell. Froze when he saw Sam Wesson pinned to the wall, Tom behind him, hands snaking slowly below the belt. There was an ugly smile on Tom's face.

Dean went to some dark place, where his nightmares played on repeat. Then he charged and threw a fist in Tom’s face. Right side, sent him sprawling to the floor next to the bed. Tom clutched his mouth, gurgled something incoherent.

Dean stepped back, categorized the damage. Blood, Tom had bit his tongue maybe, or a loose tooth? Good. Would go for a broken nose next, knew exactly where to hit.

He grabbed Tom’s lapels and punched him again. A crunch, the sickening sound of bones and blood. Satisfied something in him. So Dean did it again. But then he heard a gasp as knuckle and face connected. Not Tom though, tiny, and from behind him. Dean looked over his shoulder. Through a red haze he saw Sam, flattened against the wall. His eyes were wide with terror. Just a kid.

Nothing could stop Dean until either he or Tom was a bloody pulp on the floor, but Sam cleared his head, just for a second. Whatever he had planned, he wouldn’t do it here.

Dean grabbed Tom and hauled him out of cell H-6 but he didn’t get far. Tom wrenched himself away and stumbled towards the far left wall. Dean followed with murderous intent.

The kids in their cells realized a fight had erupted. Their window hatches open, they had a perfect view of the dogfight. They started to shout and jeer, egging Dean on. Dean caught Tom by his shoulder, arm raised for another blow but he got blindsided by an uppercut from Tom. It put Dean on his back, blinking stars from his vision. Dean lay still, winded. Tom panted, a safe distance from him. He took the moment to sneer at Dean, even through the blood.

"Something about this kid, Dean. Makes guys like us go _crazy."_ He snorted. Then giggled.

Dean rolled over onto his side, winced. "Us?" he echoed. Wasn’t done with Tom, could get the upper-hand again. If he could just get to his feet. "You are your _own_ world of crazy Tom. Sick. Twisted. I've got nothing to do with it." Leg tucked under him, about to pounce. But Tom cut him off. Jumped forward and kicked him in the gut before he could make a move. Dean landed on the floor again, gasping for air. Cut short from anymore smart-ass comments. 

“You think you're so much better than me, different from me?” Tom laughed, nothing about this funny. “You never cared about anybody but yourself, Dean. Now you want to protect _this_ kid, of all people? In here for _murder?_ Ha! I mean, that's awful sweet and all, but forgive me if I don't believe in your pure intentions!"

Tom lashed out again, kicked Dean in the face this time. For a split second Dean's world went black.

“But fine. You want him so bad? You can have him," Tom panted. "This stupid kid. He's not even worth the effort. Maybe you two deserve each other anyways. A murderer and a _loser._ "

Tom spat on him and left Dean with the dirty imprint of a shoe on his face and spit on his cheek. Second time in two days.

The fight was over, and Dean was the loser, just like Tom had said. Suddenly the jeering from the inmates turned against him: _pig, pussy, faggot_. Ringing like bells in his ears. Face on fire, he tasted the blood in his mouth. Nauseous. “Shut up!” Dean roared, hoarse and unheard. He pushed himself onto his knees, then finally onto his feet. Abdomen screaming. Spat the blood out of his mouth, wiped his face clean. Then slammed the nearest window hatch closed. “I said _shutup_! Show’s over!”

Dean went down the line and closed the windows of every cell 1 through 5. The groans of disappointment died down, eventually. Dean took a moment to wipe the blood off his face. Then he looked into cell H-6. Sam was on the floor with his legs folded against his chest. He sat there in corner staring blankly at nothing. Even when Dean cleared his throat, announced his presence, Sam sat perfectly still.

“You okay?” Dean asked. Dumb fucking question. But this was his fault. And now he had clean up the mess.

Sam blinked several times, like he was waking up. Surprised to find where he was at. His placid hazel eyes slowly turned to stare up at Dean. Empty, like the day of the fight. Dean recognized the escape mechanism now.

“Fine,” Sam said, hollow.

“It's okay. He's gone," Dean promised. 

"Uh-huh."

Dean stood there, helpless. Realized how bad he had fucked up. Wanted to say sorry. Assure Sam that it was the last he would ever see of Tom, so help-him-god. But he knew he had ruined any trust Sam might have had in him. The kid would tuck himself away into his cell and do nothing but curse and spit at him. Dean was surprised by the tight feeling of loss in his chest.

He was about to leave, knowing this would be the end. But then, to his surprise, Sam started to talk. “I didn’t even know it was real, at first," Sam said, distant. "I thought it was just another nightmare. I mean, it’s already happened a thousand times, the way I dream about it."

Dean wasn't sure he was talking to him, exactly, or talking to himself. But he stood and listened anyways.

"In my dreams I fight so hard but...he keeps comi back. Over and over and over again. I'm so tired of being scared. I'm so tired of fighting. That’s why sometimes, sometimes I wish…” hands and voice tightened, “that it’d just _happen_. That he would get it _over_ with, get what he wanted. And then, then maybe he’d finally _leave me alone_!” Sam’s face twisted, the horror of what he’d said pushing hot tears into his eyes. Buried his head. Wept and shook.

Face kicked in, blood on his hands, and Dean would do it all over again. Run after Tom, beat him until one of them stopped moving. Retribution. Easy job. The hard job was Sam, this kid broken in front of him. His fault. Should have been here, hauled his ass back inside when Ellen said instead of being an addict, a fucking failure. Had never worked that hard at any job in his life and now something more was required of him, not by any job description but by personal compunction. And Dean wasn't sure he was up to it. But he had to try.

“Look...leaving my post, I fucked up bad I know,” Dean said. “But when I say it’s over, I mean that _it’s over_ . He won’t lay another fucking finger on you. _I promise_.”

Thought the kid would laugh at him. To his surprise Sam slowly unfurled his long coltish legs. Wiped at his eyes. Dean pretended not to notice.

“You...pulled him off. You got rid of him," Sam observed. 

Dean rubbed his cut knuckles. Felt his face, tender, knew it would swell. "Did I?" he snorted. "I think he just got bored of kicking the shit out of me."

"No, you did." Sam said. "That...never happens in my dreams-nightmares," he corrected.

Dean clenched his jaw. "Yeah. That's why they're nightmares."

Sam looked up at him suddenly and asked, “Do you believe in monsters?”

Dean made a face at the question. “Believe people can be downright ugly. That’s a kind of monster, I guess.”

“Do you believe in the devil?”

“Like a short little red dude with a tail and a pitchfork?”

Sam shook his head, Dean missing a key point. “No, I mean the _real_ devil. Everything bad with this world, in one form. Like evil incarnate, controlling people, possessing them.”

Dean had not expected this to be a catalyst for some philosophical debate. Had not expected it from Sam, of all people. The way Sam had dismissed him before; Dean worried he was going to get spat on again and called the devil.

“M’not really a religious person,” he answered.

“Me either," Sam assured him. "But sometimes I feel like there’s so much evil in the world I could drown in it, you know? I have to believe there’s something else out there. But the devil’s only half the equation right?”

“...God?”

“I don’t know, something,” Sam said. Struggled. “Some greater good watching over us. Letting us know we’re not all alone? I don’t see evidence of it, often. Except maybe today. It reminds me…sometimes good can be like evil.”

Dean regarded the kid curiously. Had no idea where this was going, but he felt he owed him just standing and listening at least. “How is that?”

“You can find it in the most unexpected places.”

And then Sam looked at him, _looked_ at Dean like _he_ was the subject of that sentence. Not just the act of warding off Tom but something else. Even though he’d fucked up. Even though his ass got kicked. Even though he was to blame for Tom's attack to begin with. Somehow Dean was still this "evidence" Sam had been looking for. The good Samaritan. The saint in sinner’s clothing. The righteous man.

Laughable, really. It was as far from the truth as you could get. But Sam was set, resolute in bestowing that ill-fitting mantle onto Dean. Too heavy on his shoulders. He shifted, uncomfortable. He hadn't asked for it. He was just doing his job. And doing it badly, at that.

“Look I uh, got meals on wheels to deliver here and the food’s already cold, so…” Dean backed away from the cell, from Sam. He avoided eye contact, apologetic. “Not expecting you to eat or anything.”

He turned his back and retreated from cell H-6. Shut the door. Loud. Heavy. Severed the umbilical cord of whatever had been growing between them and pulled the tray cart out of the dark corner it had rolled into. Dean finished his job, delivered trays to the inmates on his block. Opened the food hatch, in, out, no utensils for suicide boy. Routine.

Back at Sam’s cell, he hesitated. Opened the hatch and slid the tray inside, quickly, without a word. Went back to his office. Twenty minutes.

Dean made a cup of coffee, strong, black. Needed something to calm his fucking nerves. He pushed stacks of paper out of the way, pushed thoughts out of his mind, ignored the lingering pain of the fight. Should probably clean up, wash his face, but fuck it all if he was going to leave again, even for a second.

Dean found that skin mag he’d stashed the day before and smirked. Righteous man. _Ha_. Threw his feet on top of the desk and flipped through pages of scantily clad women. It was tame in comparison to his usual fare, but stuck in this prison he didn't care. Dean wanted to forget everything that had happened today, figured this was a quick escape. Big and small tits, skinny girls, or real women, Dean liked it all. Liked their lipsticked-smiles, their smokey gazes, their beckoning gestures. He’d fucked dozens of women, only remembered the names of two or three. Some of them pretty enough to be in this magazine. A few had turned into short-term relationships but not one had ever accused of him of being a gentleman, of being a ‘good guy’. If they had anything _good_ to say it was about how hot he was, or what a good fuck he was (never got tired of that one, personally). Girls thought he was a bad boy, dark and mysterious and that’s what got them to drop their panties, spread their legs. All he cared about most days. Some of the more naïve ones wanted to ‘fix’ him, like he was a fucking pet project. But a week later when they found out he was boning their best friend suddenly he wasn’t worth the effort.

What had Tom said about Sam? He wasn't worth the effort?

Dean shook his head and looked at his watch. Enough time to jerk one out if he wanted. Just because he could-just to prove the point. His body knew what to do, and it would waste some time. So he flipped through a few more pages but nothing really sparked his interest. Botox smiles, fake tits. Spoiled mood anyways, thinking about Sam, what he said. Dean knew what he was, trash, like this magazine after someone inevitably jerked off into it. Cheap, used, cum-stained. Nothing more.

He tossed the magazine aside and looked at his watch again. Fuck it, close enough.

Dean got up, left the office and collected the trays. Wrapped on the door twice, his signal that he was collecting. Last cell, cell H-6 once again. Knocked twice, waited a beat. No response. Tried again, and the tray finally popped out, scattered with half-eaten food. He could see Sam sitting next to the open hatch.

“Thought you wouldn’t have an appetite,” Dean said to the narrow sliver of Sam through the hatch. Analyzed today’s serving of red mush, green mush, and a pile of refried beans with a hot dog floating in the center. Kid hadn’t touched the latter. Dean picked it up and took a bite.

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Gross!"

Dean grinned. Felt better, somehow, being insulted even as a joke. “Half-cooked hot dogs and watery beans. Just like mom used to make,” he joked. Wiggled it under Sam’s nose. Ignored the pang in his chest, any reminder of his mother.

Sam waved him away, laughed. Genuine. Bright eyes. Dimples. Dean smiled at the image.

“Sorry if I weirded you out before,” Sam apologized.  “I know you said you weren’t religious. Probably think I’m a freak, for saying that stuff huh?”

Dean shook his head. 

“Bobby, Ellen, they’re nice but I don’t think they know what to do with me. You’re different,” Sam continued. “You're not sorry for me. I like that.” Sam, distressingly honest, trying to give Dean something, not exactly sure what.

Dean shut his eyes and refused it completely. “Lights out in two hours," he said.

He took the tray and shut the hatch. Came back to the office and sat down. The skin mag stared up at him, pleasant female smiles suddenly wicked. Remembered a year ago, an ex-girlfriend throwing a whiskey bottle at his head. Lisa. Once had this stupid idea it would work out between them.  _I gave you a chance_ , she had said. _Because I thought there was something there, behind all of that bad-boy bullshit! I mean, you’re so good with my kid. But you’ll tuck him into bed and then go bang my fucking neighbor! Like nobody means anything to you. You’re trash, Dean Winchester. Used-up garbage. Someone should have thrown you away a long time ago!_

Dean chucked the magazine in to the wastebin. It stared back out at him from behind metal mesh bars. Didn’t deserve anyone’s admiration. Trash.

End of the day and back in civilian clothes, Dean emerged from the black-and-white prison into Technicolor life, like taking a fresh breath of air at the end of every day. Hadn’t got used to the transition yet.

He drove back to the motel and stepped inside. Was hit with a wall of humidity and Bela on his bed, drying her hair and draped in one of his Van Halen t-shirts, a pair of black panties, and from what he could tell nothing else. Would never get that perfume scrubbed out of his favorite tee but he had a hard time turning away half-naked women. A weakness of his. Maybe. Could work on that later.

“You still here?” Dean asked, tossed his keys on the kitchenette counter, shrugged off his jacket.

“I’ve been sitting here waiting for your shift to end. It’s made me feel so…working-class,” Bela mused, nodded towards two plastic bags on the table. “I even made you dinner.”

Dean pushed open the pair of 7-eleven bags, found a six pack of PBR and a turkey sandwich cut in halves sitting in a plastic container. Pulled out the sandwich and started to unwrap it.

“Have you ever _made_ anything in your entire life?”  He quipped.

Bela shook her damp hair, flipped it behind her. A dark halo started to form on the back of the t-shirt. “I’ve _made_ oodles of money,” she countered. Smug.

Dean rolled his eyes and sat at the table, bit into the sandwich and opened up a beer with one hand. “Thought you had business.” Asked it through a mouthful of turkey because it would bother her. Watched Bela’s face wrinkle and thought of Sam. Dimples. Shy smiles. Took a long draught of beer.

“I did. In three months’ time I’ll be worth triple what I am now. Stocks and bonds, money trading hands, you wouldn’t be interested.” Bela’s eyes shone bright like the diamonds she coveted. Could always measure her value by her net worth. Dean had been registering $0 on that line his whole life.

“Guess not,” he agreed, drank beer from a can. “So. _Still_ here on business?” Already knew the answer to that, the way Bela smiled. Stripped off his Van Halen shirt, another good clue.

Soft breasts, dim light, she invited him with a look, like those girls in the magazine.

“You’ve become so… _legit_ , Dean Winchester. Working 9-5. Have you suddenly cleaned up your act?”

Empty beer can, set it down and loosened his belt. “Nope.” He sank into the mattress beside Bela, pressed against her, felt the heat of her body, from between her legs.

“You’re hurt,” she observed. Not concerned, had seen him beat up plenty of times, usually the winner. Touched the cut on his lip, his cheek where an ugly bruise had already formed.

“S’nothing,” he dismissed, kissed her breasts and let his hand trail over her belly. Dipped under her lace panties and removed a small plastic bag filled with white powder. Raised his brows as Bela laughed. She took the bag, put her finger inside and offered him a taste.

“Shouldn’t,” Dean hesitated, no conviction. “Work tomorrow.”

Bela rubbed the powder over her teeth, over her gums, looked like the cat that ate the canary. “Let me show you something,” she purred, rolled off the bed. Opened her purse on the night stand and removed a pair of tickets. Presented them, two international flights into London.

“What’s this?”

“What do you think?”

Two international flights to London, dated for tomorrow. “Are you serious?”

Bela stretched out on the cheap sheets, set a small mirror in front of her and started making lines with a Visa Black Card, casual. “I’m always serious, Dean.”

Stared at the tickets, felt the weight of them, what it could mean. “Why?”

Bela smiled, secretive. Reached over and pulled one of the tickets from his hand, started rolling it up. “Because I miss you.”

Dean scoffed, lying right through her treated teeth. “You’re bored,” he concluded.

She agreed with a shrug. “We’ve always had a good time, you and I. Never really cared where you were Dean, just so long as you were moving. Could have that again. Me.”

Dean leaned on the other side of the mirror as Bela inhaled and rolled his ticket up in a similar fashion. “How do I know this isn’t gonna end like last time?”

Wiped at her nose. “You don’t. That’s all part of the _fun_.”

Dean scoffed, hesitated with the rolled up ticket in his hand. Different definitions of fun, and Bela reminding him that her wings stretched that much farther than his. She kissed him and he inhaled his line. Dropped the ticket, pushed the mirror aside, felt his blood start to pump in preparation of what happened next. Knew what they were to each other.

Bela straddled him and whispered. “You were always such a good ride, Dean.” 

Dean smiled. His worth, sounded about right as Bela seared kisses into his neck, brushed a hand against his own, growing want. Some need he couldn’t name, was never filled.

“What do you want?” she asked.

But Dean didn’t know. Closed his eyes because she felt warm, felt good like the drug disseminating in his veins. A quick high, but nothing that lasted, that mattered. Still, Dean had felt nothing for so long he was desperate to feel good. Erect. Bela pulled him free, clear that Dean was a toy she could buy. He drew his hands over her back and grabbed the fleshy parts of her ass as he entered her and sighed.

Had nothing of his own, not really, not the jacket he wouldn’t leave home without, not the car he idolized. Nothing but his dick and maybe this job. Long hours. Shit bosses. Bobby and Ellen, their long-winded speeches. And Sam.

Heard Bela moan, rotated her hips, slow, enjoying him. Dean wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed into her, felt her tighten around him and grunted with the pleasure of it. His whole body throbbed.

Had made a promise to Sam. His word was worth shit, but that kid didn’t know it, had looked at him and asked him to be better, expected it. Like Lisa had expected it, and others. Difference was Dean wanted this. Realized it now as he fucked Bela. Wanted to keep his promise to protect Sam, keep Tom away. Even if it meant staying in this shit motel, in this small ass little town. Even if he picked a fight and lost it every day. Anything, _anything,_ so Sam might look at him again like he _meant_ something.

Climax. His body shuddered with the conclusion. Dimples. Shy smiles. Sam.

Bela rolled off of him with a contented smile, laughed and said something but he didn’t hear. Body still vibrated with energy. He wanted to shout, run, anything but stay in this bed with this old flame and his thoughts. Dean got off the bed, grabbed his keys and the last five beers.

“Dean?” Bela asked. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he answered. Had no idea.

Without his jacket, or his shoes, just his pants and his open belt, Dean got in the Impala. Tossed the PBR in the passenger side seat and started the car. Would realize in the morning how fucking crazy the whole thing was, but right now he needed the intoxication of the night air. He pulled out of the motel lot and drove familiar roads, swung out onto the highway just for the thrill before he came back and pulled up alongside Douglas County Youth Services.

The correction center was a sleeping monster at night, bright lights like eyes illuminated its periphery. It hummed quietly in its sleep, a steady droning that blended into the sound of cicadas. Dean grabbed a beer, opened it, drank, and listened until everything was a pleasant buzz.

Hours later came back. Bela was gone, no surprise. Left fifty bucks tucked in to his underwear drawer, her idea of joke. Dean smiled. It was fine. He’d determine his value another way.


	5. Chapter 5

Got his first paycheck at the end of the week. Finally paid for his motel room and then bought gas for Baby, some basic perishables for himself (fuel for the two of us he joked): bag of bread, peanut butter, some jerky and a bottle of whiskey. Wondered how long he would be here, and if he should consider renting an apartment with the cash leftover. Spent Saturday touring a few places but committed to nothing. Blew the rest of his paycheck at a casino in Kansas City, followed by binge drinking at a strip club. Returned to his motel in Lawrence on Sunday, penniless. Back at square one.

That’d been his only excitement since Bela left. The routine at Douglas County Youth Services was tedious, and the kids were annoying shits. Dean had developed little pity for the gang members and the drug dealers, or the idiots here just for skipping school. They’d been born ankle-deep in shit, had gotten used to the smell and didn’t trust anyone or anything unless it stank just as bad. Looking at them reminded Dean of his own scars, carved deeply. But Sam was different.

The other guards had long washed their hands of Sam, angry and skittish, like a wild colt he bucked and bit in self-defense.  But for Dean he was calm. For Dean he would eat his meals, might smile at a joke, and on rare occasions laugh. There was a secret part of Sam that only revealed itself for him. And in this whole stinking prison it was the one thing that was his and his alone. Dean kept that knowledge close to his breast, tucked under his uniform where the sheriff’s patch was sewn.  His allegiance had been sworn to Sam’s well-being, and Dean’s sense of personal justice was purposefully skewed in that direction.

They never talked directly all that much, not since the fight with Tom. But locked up 23 hours out of the day, still found ways to pass the time. Started off with a crossword puzzle at first, Dean snagged it from the back of the local newspaper and slipped it under the door. Quickly grew tired of it though because he wasn't any good. Stared at those empty boxes and all of Sam's answers. Frustrated, started filling them in with the words he _did_ know. Six letters for a person in charge? Filled in FUCKER, figured it was close enough.

Sam didn't think it was funny, said he was missing the point and went on about him ruining the puzzle. So Dean didn't bother anymore, let Sam figure it out himself and the kid was just fine with that. But Dean did like the weekly comic strip, just above the crossword. That's how the jokes started, he guessed. One day Bobby found a stray scrap of paper where Dean had listed every single blonde joke he could remember. None of them particularly clean.

The hell was his problem? Bobby had asked, was he trading _sex jokes_ with a fifteen year old?

Jesus, nothing like that.

Oh yeah? Well sure looked that way. Needed to get his head on straight. Not this kid’s friend, the one holding the key that keeps him here. Shouldn’t forget that.

Yeah. Fine. Whatever.

Later Sam wrote that his jokes were disgusting and degrading to women, then told a great one about a priest and a strap-on that had Dean busting a nut all day.

Life was alright, for a bit at least.

Tom had healed up from the fight, and so had Dean. Thought for sure his ass would end up in Alastair’s office again, strapped down and tortured, but Dean hadn’t heard an administrative peep about their territorial fist fight. And nothing from Tom. All of his threats were empty, like Dean had guessed. Wouldn’t know anything had happened, except that Tom walked about like an emperor penguin now; puffed out chest, waddling like he had weights strapped to the inside of his thighs. But kept his nose out of Dean’s business, out of the shoe. And that’s what mattered.

Thought maybe that would be the end of it, but a few weeks later everything came to a head.

Eight am. No breakfast. Coffee in hand. Pulled up to the youth center with an ambulance parked in front, gathering of officers and nurses in scrubs to the side. Solemn, downcast faces reflected red lights.

Dean’s heart skipped a beat. Flew out of the Impala gripping his Styrofoam cup so hard it spilled onto his hand, burned, didn’t notice. Was sure something awful had happened, gory scenarios playing out in his mind. Could name the victim and perpetrator in one shaky breath.

Ellen emerged from the group, grabbed him by the arm and curtailed his bullish attempt to cut through the crowd. She could see the pallor on his face.

“Dean, sweetie, come here,” she said calmly, guided him off to one side as two officers emerged pushing a gurney. Body in a black bag, didn’t fill it all the way. Felt bile rising in his gullet.

“Alan Corbett,” Ellen explained. “Overdosed during the night, morning shift found him. They think he’s been like that since lockdown last night. Poor kid.”

Loud sigh of relief that nearly deflated him.

Horrible, yeah he knows, to be happy it was someone else, but never agreed he was a saint. “What’d he choke on?” Dean asked, less sensitive than he was supposed to be, the way Ellen’s face drew into a tight-lipped frown.

“It’s new on the streets,” she finally said. “They call it _Black Eye_ on account of the user’s eyes going black. Also heard it called _Possession_. Like demonic possession.” Ellen shook her head, fear hedging her voice. “They get it pure and it just…it takes them away, Dean. Been a real problem these last six months, but this is the first death we’ve ever had.”

Dean watched them load the body into the back of the ambulance.

“We wait and see if any family claims him but I doubt it,” Ellen sighed. “What I know, he’s been in and out of homes. Don’t think he ever had relatives or family visits, not once.”

“And if no one claims him?”

Ellen swallowed. Dean could see new wrinkles forming in the creases of her eyes where she pushed her emotions, never to be processed. “We send him to the state prison in Topeka. Wood shop makes a coffin. Smaller size. They have a chain gang go and bury him in an unmarked grave. Parishioner is there, says a few words. Short but respectful.”

Punctuated it with a nod, approval, best they could do. Their lives combines of found objects and borrowed time, assembled into the general shape of a human being. No one admired the beauty of it until you were in a hole and that’s what they cried about.

Best they could do.

The ambulance doors shut and the van backed out onto the street. Nurses and officers stepped aside, made way. Lights still going, no siren, no longer an emergency. Dean swallowed, dry. No family, no friends, an uncomfortable common denominator. Fallen through the cracks and into a grave, forgotten maybe but finally at peace .Was Douglas County a gutter that collected debris?

Somewhere to his left, in the crowd, Dean heard a nurse pleading in Spanish, a prayer for the sinners in their hour of death. _Amen. Amen. Amen._

“Dean, sweetie, you okay?”

Dean avoided Ellen’s concern. “Yeah,” he said, nodded too vigorously. “Yeah I’m fine.”

“Okay. Listen, I need you to go inside and change, meet me in solitary,” she said. “They’re sweeping this place front to back, looking for contraband and that especially means drugs. Started already, so hurry up.”

And like that it was business as usual. She shooed him away, towards the locker room. Dean tossed his coffee, ran his reddening hand under cold water and changed into his uniform. Tried not to think about body bags and short coffins.

He met Ellen fifteen minutes later in the Special Housing Unit. The cells stood open and empty and in the middle of the hall each inmate was handcuffed, wrists behind their backs, chains about their waist. Three officers Dean didn’t recognize were inside the cells, searching for more drugs, he guessed. Ellen stood behind the kids, motioned for him to approach. Glanced briefly at Sam and cut through the line.

“Special unit,” Ellen explained, nodded towards the officers in thick padded vests. “Warden called them in this morning. Any contraband they find is removed from the cell and sorted through, categorized.”

Dean regarded two of the officers as they entered Sam’s cell with a plastic bin, Tweedle De and Tweedle Dum.  He instantly disliked them. Could tell their vests were padded mostly with pride like the assholes that had shook him down as a kid. Disliked them even more when Tweedle Dum grabbed a handful of Sam’s books and threw them into that plastic bin.

“NO!”

Sam was an orange flash in the corner of his eye, rushed towards his cell, chains rattling. Couldn’t stop him in time. Couldn’t stop Tweedle Dee from backhanding him sharply. Sam, fixated on his books, never saw it coming. Shouts cut short, fell on his back. Dean could see blood in his mouth.

“Keep that thing on a leash,” the officer barked.

Dean, at Sam’s side, shot a murderous glare. Neither of them noticed. He tried to get Sam on his feet again but he refused Dean’s help, spat out the blood in his mouth and ran towards his cell again. This time Dean caught him about the middle, held on tight as Sam shouted and writhed.

“Put those back!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, fought viciously to escape Dean’s hold, kicked him in the shins, elbowed him in the face. “Put them back they’re not yours!”

Dean winced at the onslaught but his grip was iron. “Sam. Calm down, just-Jesus- _calm down_!”

The officers paused and looked at Sam curiously. “It’s more than the allotted amount,” Tweedle De explained robotically. “Anything that violates the rules is considered contraband. And all contraband must be removed. I’m sorry, but we have to get rid of them.” Then they proceeded to clear Sam’s desk of _everything_.

When Sam realized he was helpless to stop them, that there was nothing he could do, a part of him snapped. Dean could feel it, arms wrapped around his waist.

“ _They’re just books_!” he shrieked, _shrieked_ , at the top of his lungs. “They don’t mean _anything_ to you! _Just leave them_!” Sam begged, choked sobs at the end of his pleas. “They’re just books. _They’re just books!_ ”

But no one heard him. Tweedle De and Tweedle Dum dumped everything from his cell into that plastic bin, and that was the end of it. They had searched the other cells, filled two other bins, and hauled everything away leaving behind Dean, Ellen, and five kids handcuffed behind their backs.

After the officers left, Dean let go of Sam and the kid raced back into his cell, didn’t give Dean a chance to remove the cuffs. Heard one of the inmates mutter “pussy” and it earned them a reprimanding slap upside the head from Ellen.

Dean followed Sam inside cell H-6. Found him on the floor, back to the edge of his bed and scrambling for something underneath it. Sam’s gaze cut to him, panicked, recognized Dean and then ignored him as Sam pulled a small shoe box out from under the bed. The relief on his face was obvious. Then, even with his restraints he removed the lid, swung himself around to examine the contents.

Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach when he saw what was inside. Photos damp and curled around the edges from extreme heat, melted pieces of jewelry coated in ash. Remnants of his home, everything Sam had ever owned reduced to ash and rubble. What was left had been shoved into a shoebox and kept under a mattress in Douglas County.

Sam looked at the photos, couldn’t touch them because of the cuffs and the chains, laid his head on the mattress and wept, ugly and loud. Spit and blood stained the sheets.

Dean looked away. Life, family, hope. Gone. Just like that. This broken little kid.

Dean ached for him. Wanted to sweep Sam up into his life, out of this cell, and into the empty passenger seat of his car. He couldn’t offer Sam anything better than what he’d had but he could show him the highway at night, endless like the sky above them. Could let him feel the wind whipping through his hair. The thrill of going forward in search of something, even if you don’t know what, because it makes you forget for a moment all those things you’re trying to leave behind.

Stupid thoughts. Because all Dean could really do was mutter that he was sorry as he bent over to remove Sam’s restraints and shut him back inside that nine-by-five cell. Part of the problem not the solution, like Bobby had said. Dean was holding the key that kept him here.

The freedom of the Impala didn’t belong to Sam.

By now Ellen had finished escorting the other inmates back into their cells. She looked over Dean, like he’d seen another dead body. “You okay?”

Scrubbed a hand against his jaw. Couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a pallbearer again, or pushing the gurney with the body bag. “Yeah,” he lied. Then looked to Ellen sharply. “Hey um…think you can do me a favor?”

“Uh-oh,” Ellen joked.

Dean smiled weakly. “Can you cover me. For a few minutes?”

“Cigarette break?” she asked.

Cleared his throat, avoided eye contact. “Yeah, something like that.”

Dean left the Special Housing Unit and made his way back to General Population where cell searches were still being conducted. He found Bobby behind the desk again and joined him, leaned on the countertop. They both watched the special unit officers remove bins of contraband and carry them towards the administrative offices.

“Hey,” Dean acknowledged after a moment. “Crazy shit, huh?”

“Sure is,” Bobby agreed. “These idjits walk in and suddenly everything’s contraband. Don’t like the look they give you, everything you own is contraband. Not the damn problem here,” Bobby shook his head, resigned to the indignation. “But what the hell do I know?”

“A lot more than these assholes,” Dean huffed. “What happens to all that stuff anyways?”

“Priority right now is finding any more drugs. Rest of that stuff gets stored till we get a chance to go through it. Then after that, chucked, most of it. Maybe donated. Things like cellphones or weapons’ll be kept and categorized.”

“So like, just in one of the storage rooms?” Dean asked, craned his neck to see another bin disappear in that direction. Tapped his hand on the counter and nodded his thanks to Bobby. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Not planning on anything stupid, are you?” Bobby warned.

Dean grinned cheekily, waved back to the old man. “Who, me?”

Bobby frowned, would have said more but Dean was gone. He slipped past the administrative offices, just before the door that let out into the yard, down a hall towards the back. Dean passed two of the special unit officers on his way. They ignored him and when Dean arrived in storage, found himself alone.

He slipped behind one of four steel doors and turned on the light. Here, they would keep stacks of inmate and guard uniforms, toiletry and other commissary items for the inmates; all the usual necessities that kept this place running. But in this storage room there were rows of metal shelves littered with various items: cell phones, crudely made knives and weapons. Where they kept and categorized contraband, he guessed.

Dean spotted the bins of items the special unit officers had collected; ten of them lined side-by-side on the far wall. Quickly scanned their contents, found a few more cell phones and a surprisingly well made soap sculpture of a dog. Then he found Sam’s bin, books piled high.

He squatted in front of the bin and pulled out the first couple of books: Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, The Sandman. Dean smiled, pulled out a few more: American Psycho, Hamlet, and a book by Carl Jung. Dean whistled. Damn, smart kid. He flipped through that last one and discovered some writing on the inside back cover, cursive, in pink gel pen that read ‘love Jessica’. Checked the rest of the books, same inscription.

Ah. Made sense now, Sam’s reaction. These objects were precious for more reason than one, reminded him of home, what he had, like that box under his bed.  Dean stacked the remaining books on the floor, wasn’t sure how he was going to sneak these back into Sam’s cell just yet but he’d find a way. And the sooner the better, with all this chaos going on, who the fuck would care about some books? At least give the kid some comfort, remind him of his girlfriend, or whatever.

At the bottom of the bin there were some remaining items: blunt pencils, old homework, and a bright red notebook. Dean picked up the notebook, flipped through it and realized it was a diary: dated entries with Sam’s neat, precise handwriting. Image of Sam kicking his legs writing ‘dear diary’ at the end of every night made him smirk. And it made him curious.

Hesitated. Tapped the notebook on his thigh. Thought about, maybe, getting a first-hand account about what happened with Tom. But, no. Put a bad taste in his mouth, like sulfur. Not bad enough to put the diary back though. Was only harmless snooping. Innocuous. Selfish.

Skipped to the end. Recent dates. Last week. That fight with Tom.

_It almost happened again. It would have happened, I’m sure of it. I surprised him before but this time he was careful. I can’t stop shaking, thinking about what if. Ate some food earlier, threw it up._

Dean’s stomach flipped, thought about that half-eaten tray. Felt guilty, kept reading.

_I wish it was me that had pushed him off and punched him in the face. I could have, if I was stronger, bigger, like Dean. He got in a few good hits. I liked seeing the bruises and cuts on his knuckles, knowing they’d been in Tom’s face._

_I hate Tom. I want him to die. I’d even let Dean do it if he wanted. He doesn’t like Tom either, I guess. Must really have a beef if he’s ready to smash Tom up like that. Which is weird, since pigs usually stick together._

Dean wrinkled his nose, not used to being called that, stilled hurled it at every state trooper that tried to pull him over.

_I hate myself for choking the way I did. Right in front Dean, felt so dumb. I don’t know, panicked I guess. But he didn’t baby me, or treat me like damaged goods. I was surprised and I said some stuff. I feel stupid about it now cause he acted so weird. I don’t think he believes in God, or in anything. I didn’t used to either but when you’re in hell, what other choice do you have?_

_I know he wasn’t sent to me, by God or whatever, but it’s nice feeling like someone’s finally on my side._

Read that last entry again, frowned. Synapses firing, but no conclusion. He shut the notebook and tossed it back into the bin.

“Am I _interrupting_ something?”

Dean jumped out of his skin, jerked to his feet. Found Alistair leering at him in the doorway of the storage room. Kicked away the books by his feet and stammered guiltily.

 “Uh, no. I was just um, you know, looking for, um contraband. Right? So they were looking for drugs and shit and I thought, well, I thought I’d make sure they hadn’t missed anything and um. Nope. Everything looks set here. Yup.  Great job.”

Dean nodded vigorously. The Superintendent was not impressed.

“Mmhmmm. Well if you can spare a moment from your _vigorous_ search then perhaps you can meet me in my office.” Stood there, waiting. Dean stupidly frozen to the spot. “Sometime _today_ , Mr. Winchester.”

Alastair beckoned for him, curled his finger in a come-hither motion and then retreated. Dean mouthed a silent ‘fuck’ before following.

To Dean’s alarm, they weren’t alone inside the Super’s office. Tom was already sitting across from Alastair’s desk when they both walked in. Dean’s chest tightened, felt those straps restraining him again, spikes pressing into his flesh, another trap.

Alastair impatiently indicated that he should take a seat and Dean complied, sat down stiffly next to Tom. They exchanged vicious glances.

“Oh my it’s been a busy, busy day,” Alastair sighed dramatically, focus shifting between them. “What with the dead little boy and the desperate scurry to clean up after him. Curious thing, heightened security, makes us see what we might have otherwise missed.”

The Superintendent turned the computer monitor on his desk so that Tom and Dean could watch the video footage of them beating the shit out of each other. Dean’s mad dash into the cell, throwing Tom out and gaining the upper hand. Didn’t really enjoy seeing his ass handed to him.

“Tut, tut, tut” Alastair chided, after it was over. “How the children like to _play_.” He turned his monitor back around, folded his hands and leaned in, voice lowered, menacing. “Now if it were up to me, I’d break both of your hands, and cut out the tongues from your heads. However, the warden has personally asked to deal with this little squabble of yours. Lucky, _lucky_ you.”

Dean swallowed, dry.

“I will inquire if he’s ready to deal with you. In the meantime you boys sit very still and. Don’t. Move. A muscle.” Smiled down at them like he’d told a joke and then left his office. Door shut. Eerie silence. Tom and Dean. Alone.

“Does this feel like poetic justice, Tom?” Dean snarled. Clutched the edge of his chair, white-knuckled. Felt cornered, all of a sudden. “Cause it feels more like karma’s about to bitch-slap you.”

Tom snorted, splayed his legs out in front of him carelessly. Hadn’t noticed Dean’s fists curling or didn’t care. Thought he was big shit after their last scuffle. “The way I see it we’re in the same boat. Gonna find out what you’ve been doing and then it’s just gonna look like we’re fighting over him.” Tom laughed, pushed hair out of his face. “Like a couple a horny teenagers fighting over a girl ya know.”

Dean turned to Tom slowly, disgust etched into every corner of him. “Don’t you _ever_ fucking pretend that you and I are on the same level, okay? You aren’t even the shit I scrape off my _shoe_.”

“In a court of law they call it _grooming_ , Dean, what you’re doing: passing notes, playing the big brother, the protector. And what, pretending to be his _friend_? Until he realizes you want something more.”

Dean shook his head furiously, turned away. Done. Fucking done. “You’re sick. Fucking _mental_.”

“You think you’re so much better than me? Hell, I was sweet on him too at first. But he likes to play hard-to-get. Pretty boy. Looks just as pretty crying.” Tom batted his lashes for emphasis. Muscles in Dean’s arms bulged from restraint. Felt like he was going to burst.

“Don’t blame you for trying Dean, really don’t. Little boy wants to be bent over and fucked, oh boy, _he wants it so bad_!”

Not his fault, really. If they didn’t want it to happen they shouldn’t have left them alone, should have known better. But there’s no camera in the Super’s office, so Dean could claim self-defense. No way to tell, really, that Tom didn’t throw the first punch. No way to tell that it wasn’t all a bad accident. Except that when Tom stilled, Dean kept punching. Through all the blood, couldn’t even make out what he was hitting anymore. Not that it mattered. It had stopped being Tom a long time ago.

Stumbled out of the Super’s office in a haze. Cuts on his face, bruises, left eye swollen shut but he couldn’t feel anything, numb from head to foot. Blood on his hands. _So much blood_. The walls of the prison loomed up like fun glass mirrors, distorted shapes dancing across his vision. Back in solitary, didn’t know how he got there, but he wanted to show what he’d done. Proud. A warrior with marks of his win.

But Ellen found him first and she spilled out of the office, horrified. “ _Dean_? My god, what _happened_ to you?”

No God here just him, had to do what God couldn’t. His dirty work.

Ellen tried to touch Dean but he flinched. Not for her, didn’t do it for her. “Everything’s fine now,” he assured her.

Ellen’s gaze, wide and wild. “No Dean everything’s _not_ fine. Honey you’re bleeding everywhere, we’ve got to get you to the medical ward. C’mon. Come with me.”

But he shook her off, felt another surge of violence at her demand.

“You can leave now Ellen. _I’m going back to work_ ,” Dean insisted. There was a warning buried there.

Ellen, lost. Could hear her voice cracking with fear, scared for him, or maybe of him. “Okay Dean. I’m going to leave, but I’m going to come back with help. Okay? You…you stay right there sweetheart. Stay right there.”

Stood still till she left. Alone again, finally. Hands trembled. Knuckles worn and cut and bleeding. Blood. _So much blood_. He opened the door to cell H-6 with blood.

Sam smelled him, what he’d done and jumped to his feet, saw a holy warrior standing in his cell. Couldn’t be certain it wasn’t another dream. “Dean?”

“It’s okay,” Dean said softly. Nothing holy about him. Just a broken body.

Sam studied the damage, eyes wide like Ellen. Horror. Awe. Hard to tell. “What…” he started to ask, got lost in the evidence of the battle that had been fought.

“Tom,” Dean confirmed.

The name made Sam shudder.  Held himself and bit the inside of his cheek. Wound from before opened, flooded his mouth. The smell of blood strong, and now he could taste his own.

Dean waited for the revulsion to surface on Sam’s face. Hadn’t thought till now that maybe Sam would reject what he had to offer, the blood of the monster that haunted him.

“Why?” Sam asked, red on his teeth.

Why not? Felt everything had been leading to this since he’d put on that sheriff’s badge. Authority to deliver retribution, long overdue. “Because he touched you.”

“Is he dead?” Question sliced across him, another cut.

Dean lowered his gaze, guilty. Felt he had failed, somehow. “No.” Shut his eyes and saw Tom still in the office, unconscious but breathing. 

To Dean’s surprise, felt Sam’s fingers skim his face, his uniform, the badge on his chest, now trailing down his arms, the palms of his hands and the tips of his bloody fingers. “Does it hurt?” Sam asked. 

“No,” Dean lied. Felt Sam worshiping his bruises, tracing his cuts. Then felt lips pressed against his.

Opened his eyes. Found Sam looking up at him, intoxicated with the thick smell of their enemy’s blood, with Dean, with the hunt. His own blood on Sam’s lips, dark and glossy like rouge, offered to him the way Dean had offered himself. What he had wanted, Sam’s affirmation. Devotion. Something that belonged only to him. Yes. All this time, had wanted _this_.

Dean accepted. Pulled Sam in, tasted his blood, as Sam tasted his. Their lips sealed together, a pact. Blood brothers, together against everything including a justice system that had given neither of them justice. So they had reached out and taken their own.

But if the universe had aligned for them it wouldn’t last. Ellen came back with Bobby, who reached into cell H-6 and yanked him out, threw him against a wall. Dean lashed out, tried to fight back until he saw Bobby’s hard face glaring at him, wrinkled in horror and fear. Ellen beside him, shutting the cell door. The way they both stared at him, like he had looked at Tom. Ha. Of course. What he must look like to them. Head of a lion maybe, but still attached to a chimera.

Dean stopped fighting, dropped his arms down to his side. The rush of violence and adrenaline leaving him empty and hollow.

“ _The hell_ , boy?” Bobby asked, shaking. Glanced between Dean and cell H-6, trying to piece things together. Could see him refuse the conclusion. “Have you gone off the _deep end_?”

Laughed in response, didn’t care about anything anymore. His first day there Bobby had told him to figure it out. As far as Dean was concerned, he had.

“Dean, this _is serious_. I’m supposed to take you to the warden,” Bobby said warily. “You gonna come quietly?”

Dean nodded, consigned to his fate. Felt he had fulfilled his purpose. Nineteen years old and if they locked him up for twenty years that was just fine with him, figured he was headed down that road anyways. At least he’d made it worthwhile.

Bobby grabbed him by the arm and ushered him out of solitary to the ringing of Sam shouting his name. Felt the whole prison was watching him now. Dead man walking. _Amen. Amen. Amen._

 


	6. Chapter 6

It’s the small things you miss: colors, tastes, sensations. The lazy, dry heat of the summer that makes you sweat. The cool hardwood beneath your feet as you crawl out of bed in the middle of the day. The way that third stair from the bottom always creaks, reminds your mom to remind your dad to fix it. The soft jingle of silverware and dishes before you reach the kitchen, muted conversations. Then bright bursts of color: Oranges in a blue bowl, red and yellow boxes of cereal on the counter, a vivid green lawn past two glass sliding doors. Your mom and dad smiling wide as you sit down to a late breakfast, teasing you, rustling your hair. Sweet, nutritionless kid’s cereal, a rare indulgence.

Your memory is vivid and bright, Technicolor.

Reality is a muted palette: black, grey, faded orange.

Your memory is vivid, bright, and fading.

You cling to every family dinner, every vacation, every birthday, every reason you had to smile. And when you run out of those, you think about that night. Sometimes you forget what you received for your 10th birthday. Sometimes you confuse it with your 8th. You quiz yourself; end up with conflicting answers each time. But the more you think about that night, the more you remember. You rake it over in your mind, hoping that you’ll discover one inane, forgotten detail that will, miraculously, set you free. Instead, the fire starts to feel like the only real thing that’s ever happened to you. It starts to drain the color from your past, until it’s as dull and colorless as the present.

And yet you continue to think about it, because you are powerless not to.

It’s a warm night. Spring is starting to slowly unfold. Your mom made a cheese gnocchi casserole that your dad likes to call ‘deluxe mac and cheese’. He didn’t joke about it that night, long day at work micro-managing funds. Everybody felt the tension.

He’s happier by the time you go to bed. It’s a stupid bedtime ritual, really. He doesn’t kiss your cheek and tuck you in anymore because you said you were too old for that, started to complain (you regret all of that now). But he still wants to be the last thing you see before you fall asleep, and you’re not too big to say goodnight to your dad. So as you crawl under the covers he smiles big and warm and says “good luck kiddo,” and turns off the light.

Your head hits the pillow with a smile because you know what he means. You’re trying out for track tomorrow. You’ll make the cut, you know how good you are. But that’s not what’s causing all these knots in your stomach. Even thinking about it gets you stupidly excited.

You imagine how it’ll feel, the rush of adrenaline still in your veins as your friends stand around after tryouts. Breathing heavily you’ll catch her eyes and see that she’s smiling. She’s been watching you this whole time. You smile back, try to play it cool, but your heart’s surging faster than when you ran.

That’s when you’re going to strut over and ask if she’ll go with you to that dance next week. You’re sure she’ll say yes, just like you’re sure about tryouts; you’ve only been flirting around each other for the last two weeks. But you’re still nervous because Jessica’s beautiful, and witty, and smart. She smiles at your dumb sense of humor and she makes you feel safe, normal (you don’t realize how important that is at the time). She’s perfect in every other way you can’t even begin to name and _god you hope she says yes!_

You sigh into your pillow and think it all over again. You have a plan about how to ask her out; just like you have a plan for what colleges you’re going to apply to, what grad school. Your life is a projected arch and you don’t expect too many surprises along the way, except for maybe a kid earlier than you’d planned. But those are the sort of surprises that you adjust to with a warm, tender smile.

Not like losing your entire life in a heartbeat. You don’t fucking _adjust_ to that.

It’s a couple of hours after your dad says goodnight and you’re already in a heavy sleep. Suddenly you can’t breathe. You wake up choking. The first thing you see is smoke rolling under your door. It’s thick and black. You feel it in your lungs. It takes you a few minutes to panic; you’re too tired to get it through your stupid head that there’s a serious fire in the house. You rush towards the door but by then you’re smart enough not to grab the handle. Feel it with the back of your hand instead, and realize that you’re not going out that way, not unless you want to fry (and later you’d wish you had).

That’s when it hits you that something really fucking bad is happening. You shout out for your mom, your dad. You think you hear voices. To this day you’re not sure. Of course you choke again, because you’re sucking in the smoke curling under the door, idiot. Hack up a lung as you rush towards the window. Throw it open and climb out.

There’s an overhang that protects the porch, hangs over the front door and juts out from under your bedroom window. Like any good suburban kid you’ve crawled out of your room late at night. It was easy before, when you wanted to go hang out with friends. But now it’s like descending Everest. You’re shaking as you crawl down the overhang, slip a little, catch yourself, and then slowly dangle over the edge before letting go. Your ass hits the cement, that little paved walkway from the house to the driveway. Would have missed it if you’d remembered to jump down from the side, but you’re not worried about getting caught like last time. Now you’re just trying to remember how to breathe.

You run out into the middle of the road and that’s when you see the fire consuming your house, hear the roar of its hunger. It’s probably in your bedroom now; if you were calm enough to make an educated guess. Then you notice, with a cold chill, there’s no one else out here with you. You start screaming, at first for your mom or your dad and then just for help, from anybody, from your neighbors, from God. But nobody comes.

Your terror is met with silence, as if the whole world has chosen this moment to turn their heads. You’re alone as you watch your house burn. The image sears itself into your retinas.

You run to the front door shouting for your parents again, but the door is locked. You struggle with it. Useless, can feel the heat on the other side. And then there’s an explosion upstairs. The earth shakes under your feet. For a moment you hear absolutely nothing. Then glass shattering and the roaring of flames.

That’s when the neighbors wake up. Your friend Brady and his family are the closest. His father races out of the house. Stops for a split second, in awe of the flames before he spots you and calls your name.

Brady’s dad pulls you away. Your friend and his mother join you minutes later along with the handful of neighbors that have stumbled onto the street in their bathrobes. Somebody says they’ll call the fire department. Brady’s mother asks what about Paula and Drew (mom and dad). Brady’s father squeezes your shoulder. You don’t hear what he says.

Everybody stares at your burning house.

The Lawrence-Douglas County Fire brigade finally arrives, and the police are quick to follow. The fire fighters jump out of their trucks, assess the situation and search for a waterline to hook up their hoses. Business as usual for them. Brady’s dad approaches one of them, motions towards the house, towards you. The fire fighter looks at the house and shakes his head. He looks grim. When Brady’s dad returns to your side, he says nothing.

The police talk to neighbors and Brady’s family. They talk to you and you don’t remember what you said. It’s hours later before they confirm what you already know. Even then they don’t tell you directly. The Captain mutters something to the Deputy Sheriff who mutters something to Brady’s dad. They stand around staring at you sadly. Brady’s dad quietly asks “now what?” and you lose it. Didn’t realize how much hope you’d been clinging to until it had all been ripped away.

Everything else is a blur.

You stay with Brady’s family that night and the next day your aunt and uncle from a few counties over pick you up. Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are the only relatives you have in state, in fact the only relatives you know of. Your family circle has always been small. It never seemed to matter until now.

Aunt Em and Uncle Henry have a small two-bedroom ranch style home in Jackson County. The second bedroom is piled ceiling-high with clutter and small knick knacks your aunt refuses to get rid of. They both insist they’ll work to clear a space for you. In the meantime you sleep on a pull out couch. It smells like their bulldog and their five cats.

Your parents are cremated. Ironic, you think numbly, finishing what the fire started. Two days later there’s a funeral. You attend it in a suit your uncle lends you. It’s two sizes too big. Jessica’s there.

The police ask you to go down to the station. You assume it’s because they’ve determined the source of the fire. Your uncle brings you. The police tell you both that there’s an ongoing investigation into the fire’s origins. They tell you the Lawrence-Douglas County Fire Investigator has determined that it started in your parents’ bedroom but they are still looking into exactly what caused it. Then they add they’re not ruling out arson.

You’re shocked. Could it have been deliberate? You run through the options in your head and don’t like any of them. The police ask you to go over your statement again just to rule you out as a suspect. Your uncle asks if they’re kidding. No. They’re not. So you tell them what you know, which is nothing. Then they ask you some more questions.

How was your relationship with your parents?

Good, you guess.

Did you ever disobey them? Sneak out of the house?

Well sure. Once or twice. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad kid.

Did you ever resent that you were adopted?

…. _what?_

You look at your uncle and ask what they’re talking about. He shakes his head. You ask again, louder this time, and the officer interviewing you suddenly looks embarrassed, mutters an apology. That’s how you find out Paula and Drew Wesson adopted you when you were six months old from the Bridge Home for Children in Kansas City.

You don’t know what to make of that news. You leave the police department stunned, like you’d been sitting in a dark room for fourteen years and someone had finally turned on the lights. It doesn’t change any major facts. Even if they weren’t blood related Paula and Drew still cared for you, treated you like their own. But something shifts at the foundation of you, a tiny crack at first. Years later it develops into a fissure.

Afterwards your uncle drives you to the house. It’s the first time you’ve been there since that night.

The front façade is standing but inside everything is black and ruined. Charred debris, collapsed structures, water soaked ashes, together with the smoke and stench; there’s nothing about this that’s familiar. It’s not your house anymore, it’s a burned out husk.

You begin to sort through the debris. You want to keep everything you find, but nearly everything is ruined by heat or water damage. You find a pair of photo albums in what used to be the living room. The albums are soaked through and the edges of the photos are curled by heat but you decide to keep it. You also find a piece of jewelry that you’d forgotten about.  A weird little charm your dad (or whoever he is now) picked up in Tampa. It was the first time you saw anything like it, bull horns sitting atop a bronze head decorated with an ornamental circle. He’d always said it was “real special,” wore it when he wanted good luck and rubbed at it sometimes when he was nervous. You can’t remember when he stopped wearing it, after his mother died or after he lost his job? But you’re happy to have it back. You rub off the soot and bring it with you.

The police investigation drags on for over a month. In the meantime, you survive.

You go back to a different school. Don’t know anybody, and you don’t care. You miss your old friends; don’t have any energy to make new ones. You miss Jessica. Your grades suffer.

Money gets tight. Your aunt and uncle are always fighting about it. You feel like it’s your fault so you mow lawns on the weekend, run papers for nothing but scraps. You make every effort to be invisible, don’t want to be a burden to anyone. You make your couch every day, try to help clean up. When your uncle falls asleep in front of the TV sometimes, on the couch you sleep on, you go to the love seat instead. Even though you haven’t been able to fit on that comfortably since you were eight.

Your life feels like a box that’s collapsing in on itself. You see yourself stuck here in this house; you’re aunt and uncle growing more tired and impatient with you. You see yourself stuck in a cycle of shit jobs trying to make ends meet. You imagine all the things you wanted and all of the things you could have had and you don’t see how you can get there now. You’ve been robbed. You close your eyes and see your house burning.

So you run.

You tell yourself it’s just to clear your head, a change of pace. You hitchhike back to Lawrence and crash at a friend’s place, don’t keep it much of a secret. Brady invites all of your old friends and you almost have fun.

Sunday night the cops show up at your friend’s house. Your aunt and uncle called the police because they’re worried about you, but when the officers find you they don’t take you home, they read you your rights and slap metal across your wrists.

You have no idea what’s going on until they push you back into another interview room and accuse you of murdering your parents. They have evidence, they say, of an accelerant being used to start the fire that originated in your parents’ bedroom. The Fire Investigator pointed to collapsed furniture springs, tripped circuit breakers, and greasy windows as evidence of arson. You don’t even know what that means, you didn’t do anything. They want you tell them what _really_ happened and you don’t know! You say it over and over again but they don’t hear you.

It doesn’t look good for you they say. It just doesn’t look good.

After an hour your uncle finds you in the station and calls for someone’s head. You’re a minor; he should have been there with you. The police don’t respond and your uncle says you’re not saying another word until they have a lawyer.

The state appoints you council. You don’t see them until you enter a plea three days later. Your defense lawyer arrives with your file under his arm and bags under his eyes. He’s overworked and underpaid; you’re the tenth person he’s seen that day. It’s hard to feel sorry for him when you’ve got a pair of cuffs around your wrists.

The state enters their charges against you: one count of aggravated arson and two counts of first degree murder. You state that you’re not guilty. Then they determine bond. The state argues that you’re a flight risk. Your lawyer argues you have no past criminal history. But the charges are severe and the judge refuses bail. You have to remain in custody until your trial is over. The judge’s gavel is a nail in your coffin. You don’t even get to say goodbye to your aunt and uncle.

That’s your first day in Douglas County Youth Services.

The walls are white-washed and sterile but soulless. You’re not human anymore you’re chattel and they herd you into an office where you’re searched. Then they hand you a change of clothes. You exchange your upscale polo for a faded orange t-shirt, your new jeans for sweats. The officers watch you as you change, sneer, think you’re some kind of yuppy who’s had it good all his life and they punish you for it. Push you, jab you and then shove you into the cell you get to call home.

Your bunkmate calls himself Gordon Walker. He’s sixteen and covered in tattoos. He’s in a gang called THE HUNTERS. You find out more about him than you’d like to. You lie about yourself. He finds out the truth anyway, about the fire and your parents and nicknames you “Carrie” like it’s all a big joke.

If you really had psychic powers he’d be the first one you got rid of.

The first night you spend in Douglas County you break in two. You have no parents, no house, and now you don’t even have a shitty pull out couch to sleep on. You feel cast aside and unwanted. The world is a weight, slowly crushing you. Your pillow doesn’t do much to stifle your sobs. When Gordon whispers harshly that you’re a pussy you want to tell him to go fuck himself but can’t manage the words.

If you think your world is done crashing down around you, you find there's still more room to fall.

You learn pretty quickly that you can’t trust anyone. The other inmates are just as fucked up as Gordon, or worse just as fucked up as you. Most of them are here for skipping school or getting caught with some pot. They tend to leave you alone when Gordon tells everyone what you’re here for. It’s like some kind of fucked up respect, or maybe even fear. You don’t mind, you don’t want to talk to them anyway.

The corrections officers are all corrupt. There’s only a few, like Bobby and Ellen, who are strict but sometimes kind. Everyone else is shit.

Tom Milligan looks like the rest of them, slack-jawed and dull-eyed. His dirty dish-water hair is always hanging in his face and he has a bad habit of trying to flip it behind his ear when he talks. You think he’s a little slow, but he’s nice at first. Gordon mocks you, says you have a secret admirer and spits out a list of homophobic slurs you choose not to remember. You keep your head down, figure if you shrink into yourself everything else will disappear too.

You try to call your aunt and uncle every day but the calls are stilted and grow increasingly awkward. They have to pay for your phone calls, and it’s over a dollar a minute. You quickly run out of things to talk about anyway.

At the end of the week your aunt visits, says your uncle is busy and couldn’t make it. You learn about her increasing health problems, money problems. You find out they sold that pull out couch you’d been sleeping on. It’s dumb, but it makes you feel replaced.

You get a package from your aunt the second week. She sends you those things you collected in the fire, some photos, and the amulet. She sends some religious card that tells you to keep faith. Your uncle doesn’t sign it.

The third week you get a package from Jessica. At first you’re ecstatic, and then you feel humiliated. You can’t imagine what she thinks of you now. She heard about the fire, and that you got arrested. She feels horrible about it all so she mailed you a book and on the back cover she wrote in pink gel pen “love Jessica” (your heart flutters a little at this, stupid thing). You cherish that book, read it front to back like it’s a love poem. It’s the first Lord of the Rings.

She sends you a second book shortly after. You start to measure your time in here by each book sent to you.

You purchase a red notebook from commissary and start to write about your days. The entries are usually short.

Your court appointed lawyer gets disbarred for mismanagement of client funds. It takes them awhile to assign you a new one. Your day in court gets pushed back indefinitely.

Your uncle divorces your aunt and moves away, you don’t know where.

Months go by, a year. You’re still attending school here and you’re doing well enough. The classes feel painfully easy but it’s at least one thing you have control over. You spend your first birthday in juvenile hall. Your aunt sends you a birthday card. Jessica sends another book. You’re convinced you’re madly in love with her even though you’ve only written her back twice. You’re too embarrassed to call her, you know it costs money. You’re painfully aware of money now.

Tom tries to rape you.

It takes you awhile to realize that’s the word for it. Imagined it as something that happens to other people, not to you. But that’s exactly what it was when he found you alone in a hallway and bullied you into a storage closet. He touches you. You’re not sure what’s going on. You fight him off but he knows how to hurt you, gets you on your knees and starts to unzip himself. Your brain just sort of turns off, like the power going out in a house. You don’t realize what he wants until he shoves it at you and tells you to be a good boy. Then you panic, blind and pure, an animal fighting for its life. You scream for help but no one comes. Like the night your house burned down, you watch something else being taken away from you.

Tom punches you when you shout, cruel and merciless. The blows stun and you shut up long enough for him to force himself on you. The memory of his smell and his taste still make you wretch. You want this to be over with, wish you were numb. But there’s a hate that’s been building inside of you for a while, a white hot anger. You’re tired of being out of control. So you think fuck him, and you bite down, hard.

He bashes your head against the wall but you find a certain satisfaction in his screech.

There are no other officers around until Tom’s the one shrieking. Suddenly a swarm of uniforms pull you out of that closet, kicking you into submission. You have his blood on your face and you’re proud.

They pretend to listen to your story but it feels like talking to the cops about the fire. They’ve already reached their conclusion. They segregate you in solitary for an undetermined amount of time as punishment. At first the silence is a comfort. It quickly becomes suffocating.

A month later your aunt passes away peacefully in her sleep. Nobody can get a hold of your uncle.

Tom finds a way to slip notes under your door: death threats, rape threats. You don’t bother reporting them.

You never write to Jessica again. You feel too disgusting and broken and she's better than that. She sends you a final letter. She’s confused at your silence and she’s moving, her mom never approved of keeping in contact with you anyway. She tries to say she has feelings for you but you scratch that part of the letter out with a pencil. You convince yourself you’re doing the right thing by letting her go. You accept that part of your life is gone.

You stop eating.

They send a psychologist to talk to you. You wonder if you scream this time, if he’ll listen, but he makes it pretty clear that the state requires him to be there. You read between the lines: he doesn’t really care. You lie. You’re fine, you just don’t like the food. He nods his head and checks a few boxes. He’s done his duty, you’re clear. He leaves.

You still don’t eat and now they accuse you of wasting time and resources. The Superintendent extends your stay in solitary.

Eventually you do eat, because you have to, even you have your limits. A week later they kick you out of solitary. You’re out for 16 hours before two kids that Tom bribed slam lunch trays upside your head. You don’t fight back because there’s nothing left in you. You’re like the skeleton of your house now, a standing structure, burnt and ruined on the inside.

And then he comes.

You don’t notice him at first; there are a few new faces since you rejoined general population. But during the fight he descends like a dark angel, over a table, and over your head. He throws one kid aside. Starts punching the other like he actually gives a fuck someone hurt you. He asks if you’re okay. You can’t remember the last time anybody asked you that.

But he touches you and something inside you screams. You spit in his face. You don’t trust pigs. 

Tom hauls you off and they slap you back in solitary. You’re not surprised. You’re not even surprised to see him again. They usually assign solitary to newbies, it’s such a shit job.

But you are surprised when he tries to talk to you. It pisses you off. He has some sanctimonious attitude about the way things should be run, the way you should be _acting._ You write him off as a bully, just like Tom. You bluster. Say something you think sounds tough. You spit in his direction again, just so he gets the idea to stay away, and you block the hatch with your shirt.

His name is _Dean_.

The next day Tom’s ugly face appears in the window of your cell door and your blood freezes. He walks in. You know exactly what’s going to happen. You cry out again. You don’t know why you bother. God is deaf to you.

Tom sneers and grabs at you, pulls your hair and pushes you against the wall. You think that’s it, you really are a piece of trash now, just someone’s handkerchief they’re gonna jerk off into. But then he comes. Dean.

He’s like a bulldog, the way he charges in and throws Tom off you, the way he lays into Tom with his fists. You watch, fascinated by the ferocity, intoxicated by it. For a second he realizes you’re watching, and in some bizarre display of modesty, removes Tom from your cell. But that’s when the tables turn. Dean gets his ass kicked and you hate Tom even more. Somehow it’s easier to justify your anger when he’s hurt someone else, instead of you.

You figure he’ll go limp off to lick his wounds but he comes back for you and asks you again if you’re okay. You’re conditioned to lie. You want to say something real and honest, like thank you, but you spit at him again and then you break in two. You want him to leave because you don’t want anyone to see you like this, you’re so full of shame. But he doesn’t go. He stays. He doesn’t pat you on the back and try to patronize you, he just listens.

It’s the first time you get a good look at him. He’s young, maybe about Tom’s age but different in every way. Strong. Confident. His face is a little cut up but even through the blood you can’t deny that he’s handsome. You feel strange for recognizing that, guilty. It makes you hyper aware of yourself and the space between you. You’re not sure why he’s still here, wary of him. But Dean’s barely paying attention to you. He’s far away, thinking of something. You don’t know what but you know he wants nothing from you.

When he _apologizes_ to you, you want to burst. You haven’t felt this human for years. You try to tell him that and it just sounds stupid, religious, and a tiny bit crazy. Worse, it spooks him. You try to make it better, eat something just so he thinks you’re okay, throw it up later because you're stomach's still in knots.

Dean probably thinks you’re skittish, that you need to be treated with kid gloves. The truth is you can’t run anywhere, but he can, and that scares you. He made you smile on one of your worst days, and you’re so fucking desperate for that again it hurts. He wants nothing from you, and you just want him to be there.

He comes back the next day, and the next. You start to relax, feel more comfortable in your own skin. Dean likes to tell jokes. They’re not always clean. It’s funny that he feels that comfortable with you, but Dean looks like he’s done every dirty thing twice. You share a joke Brady once told you. It’s just as dirty as any of Dean’s jokes and it gives you a thrill.

You jerk off. You're surprised your body even remembers how to function like this. Maybe you're not as broken as you think.

When they take your books you’re sure it’s the thing that will break you. You scream like you’ve gone mental, but you don’t care. You barely register Dean holding you back. For a brief second you hate him, like you hate everything else.

You still have your aunt’s package, but that’s all your life is now and you weep bitterly. You’re so tired of crying.

When you see Dean again he’s covered in blood, either a demon or an avenging angel from early scripture. It’s frightening to realize he did this for you. But it feels right, all that blood. You would have done the same thing to Tom. Dean knows that, presents himself like a gift. You accept.

He probably wasn’t expecting a kiss but that’s why you want to give it to him. Your body is the only thing you have left to give, in part because of him. When Dean kisses back you know nothing’s ever going to be the same for you again.

They take him away and it feels like the end of you. You have nothing. Not even tears.

A week goes by. You try to ask Ellen where he’s at, what happened to Dean. She can barely stand to look at you.

After the second week they finally let you out.

You’re led to a cell in general population holding your aunt’s package close to your chest. You’re put in a cell without another bunkmate, which is odd. On top of your mattress you find a bin and it’s filled with everything they took from you: your books, your notebook. You’re so surprised you laugh.

You spend some time sorting through the books and in the stack you find a dirty magazine. You're confused. Partly because you're pretty sure this is considered contraband. And also because you'd never pick up something like this, even if you weren't in juvie. You turn it over and written in black sharpie on the back is a message:Relax kid, DEAN W.

You scoff (jerk) but then your stomach flips. You glance down at the magazine (seriously, what the fuck) and then back to the bin with your things.

What does this mean? You’re afraid to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to my fiancee and her legal expertise for this chapter. I'm sure she's ecstatic that her JD is being referenced to write wincest ;)


	7. Chapter 7

Sam Wesson was no stranger to the dark. In solitary it was his only way to tell time: lights out at 10, back on at 6. When the lights were cut in general population, the dark was a heavy blanket. It muted the angry howling from his fellow caged animals and smothered their sobs.

His first night in Douglas County Youth Services the dark had magnified his loneliness, had broken him in a way that would never heal. Tonight was his first night out of solitary, back in general population. Now Sam welcomed lights out. Let it numb him until he fell into a kind of sleep. Rarely dreamed. But tonight was different. Tonight his dreams were fragmented images. They made little sense pulled apart or played together. He dreamt of shimmering ribbons of light and another person’s presence. Felt sure there was something else in the dark, watching him. Wasn’t scared though, it felt familiar in a deep, instinctual way.

The next morning Sam found a newspaper clipping that had been slipped under his door. He picked it up and scanned the headline curiously.

FORMER JUEVENILE CORRECTIONS OFFICER ARRESTED FOR POSSESSION OF CHILD PORNOGRAPHY.

Sam’s eyes dilated as he continued to read. It was about Tom. Sharp breath. Fuck.

_In recovery from what the warden of Douglas County Youth Services called an “unfortunate on-the-job accident,” Tom Milligan was arrested yesterday after an in-home care nurse discovered over 100 images of child pornography on the former correction officer’s home laptop. When asked about this discovery and his former employee, the warden commented that he’d had no idea that Tom Milligan was “that kind of sicko” but assured the press “there was never any question about his conduct while he worked for us.”_

Sam scowled, continued.

_When we reached out to Tom and his family they declined to comment. If convicted, and the charges per image run consecutively, the former officer could face up to 100 years in prison._

Sam stared at the article for a long time. The article was real, but what it reported was incomprehensible to Sam. Tom had been a figment of his nightmares for so long; it was hard for him to believe it was over. Tom hadn’t been incarcerated yet, but Sam felt like a weight had been lifted. Felt free of care, even if the back of his shirt still read PROPERTY OF DOUGLAS COUNTY.

At his desk, Sam opened his red notebook and tucked the clipping next to his last set of entries. They were about Dean.

Sam traced the name written in pencil, touched it reverently like he could summon the spirit of the man, his flesh and bones, if only he willed it enough.

Sam thought again about his dream. That thing in the dark. Had it returned his books? Had it given him this article? Did it want him to jack off to that nudie mag?

Sam sighed, remembered the signature on the back, not like Jessica. But very Dean.

So what had happened to Dean? The question haunted him like a ghost. Couldn’t concentrate during his morning classes (had been enrolled again, wanted to get through this year on time). Spent half the lectures watching the guards outside his classroom, hoping to catch a glimpse. And outside the classroom he would look over his shoulder, kept falling on his face because he wasn’t looking straight ahead. Sam started to believe his dreams. Believe he had really summoned something from the pit. Some cruel spirit that was toying with him, leaving hints and dropping clues, unable to reveal itself. Keeping Sam in perpetual torment.

During lunch Sam furthered his investigation. Stood in front of Bobby Singer's desk. After a long moment of being ignored, cleared his throat.

“Can I help you, son?” It was curt, not as warm as Bobby had been in the past. Felt Ellen was just as cold to him now. They blamed him for Dean’s fall from grace, but Sam felt a queer sort of pride about that.

“I found a newspaper article in my cell this morning that said Tom had been arrested.”

Bobby leaned back in his chair, mustache twitched from side to side. “And?”

“Is it true?” Sam asked.

“Well if you read it on a piece of print then I guess it’s true.” The old man was a stubborn mule. Held a newspaper in front of his face and expected Sam to drift away. Sam noticed a square had been cut out of the back of the paper, just big enough to announce the arrest of a previous corrections officer.

“Did Dean do it? Did he put it there? Is he okay? Is he still here? Did he get arrested too? Have you seen him?” The questions spilled out of him. Couldn’t help it, his concern had been bottled up for too long.

Bobby lowered the paper just enough for Sam to see his disapproving glare. “You stay away from him, Sam. You hear me? You and him. Like oil n’ water, just don’t mix.” Raised the newspaper, walled him off. That was that.

It was a brusque dismissal meant to discourage him, but Sam walked away with a smile. Oil and water? He liked that. Made sense that only a man-made disaster would bring the likes of them together: Sam and Dean. It was an accident. It had to be cleaned up and somebody had to be punished for the mistake. Promise it would never happen again. But it had happened. Sam could still conjure the taste of blood. Held the memory of it close to his chest. Their pact.

Sam dreamt again. He tried to call out to that thing in the dark, found that his voice was mute, his body was heavy. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. But he knew something was there.

Moaned in his sleep. Wished it would come to him, whatever it was.

Sam’s newly appointed lawyer had arranged to meet him at the end of the week. They’d given him a new one just before he’d left solitary. This was his first time meeting her. He was led from his cell to a separate room where he could speak with his counsel in private. A small, petite woman with long, bright red hair and a kind face sat waiting for him. Her name was Anna Milton.

“I know you’ve been through a lot,” she said, her voice soft. “But I think I finally have some good news for you Sam.”

Sam sat across from her and waited. Good news? He wasn’t holding his breath.

Anna had a binder on him 5 inches thick. She opened it as they discussed his case, asked for his version of events again. Would nod periodically as Sam replayed the scene in his mind, inserted questions about certain details. Then, finally, the good news.

The State’s case against him relied heavily on the Fire Investigator’s report, Anna explained, the report that claimed the presence of accelerants. However, despite the Investigator’s 30 years of experience, Anna believed his claims were not based on any sound education in chemistry but instead on old myths about arson that have largely been perpetuated by insurance companies. She told him that she’d tried a similar case years back. Had success in rebutting this particular investigator. They had won.

Then Sam’s lawyer told him that they had hired their own investigator who had determined the cause of the fire. Solemnly, Anna explained that it was very likely electrical, due to a faulty baseboard that had ignited some nearby combustibles. It had burned hot and fast in front of the bedroom door, and blocked the windows.

Sam absorbed this information, the image of his parents trapped inside a burning room.

Conscientiously, Anna continued. With this new information she was sure they had a sound defense. But. And it was the “but” that caught Sam’s attention. But, Anna continued, the State has offered him a plea deal, and it was her duty to share this information with him. If he took the deal, his charges would be lowered to aggravated arson and he would only serve time in Douglas County until he was eighteen, maybe earlier. Then he would be released.

Anna told him that it was a good deal.

“A good deal?” Sam huffed, incredulous. “But I didn’t do anything. Christ, I’m not gonna say I killed my parents, or that I even set a fire, because I didn’t!”

Anna held up her hand, indicated that she understood. “And I can’t, in good conscience, advise you to admit to anything you didn’t do. But there is always a risk when you take things to trial, Sam. I can tell you that as of this moment I think our chances are good. But I can’t guarantee you anything. If we do lose you may be in the system for a very long time, transferred to adult prison when you are of age. You’ll have the right to appeal your case if that happens, but it’s also a very lengthy process.” Anna looked at him sternly. “You need to know all of your options, Sam.”

He shook his head. “That’s not an option.”

“Are you sure?” she pressed. “You don’t have to make a decision now, you can sleep on it.”

Sam appreciated that she spoke to him bluntly, didn’t treat him like a child. But he wasn’t being flip or reckless. He’d thought a long time about what he wanted. “I can’t admit to something I didn’t do. I’ve been fighting this long and I don’t want to give up now. My answer is no.”

Anna smiled at him warmly and Sam smiled back.

“Alright,” she said, closed his case file. “We have a court date set in about a month’s time. Are you ready, Sam?”

“I’m ready to get out of here,” he said with a grin, couldn’t help a sudden surge of excitement. Thought of what he could do when he got out: wear his own clothes, run through a field, eat something without corn syrup in the ingredients. Kept in a box for so long, the whole world felt open to him.

“I promise I will keep in touch,” said Anna. “But before I go, I asked someone else to meet with us today. Her name is Rachel and she works for the CWLA. It’s part of her job to help displaced youth. You’re adopted aren’t you Sam? And you’ve lost your adoptive parents. So I think it would be a good idea if you talked to her. She’ll be able to answer any questions you might have about where you’ll go after the trial. Is that alright?”

Sam’s excitement fizzled. Reminded that his future was unclear no matter which road he traveled. Glanced nervously between Anna and the door, nodded despite his nervousness. “Yeah.”

Anna stood and after a moment escorted another woman with blonde hair and a light suit. Anna introduced Sam to Rachel and they both sat down.

“Hello, Sam,” Rachel started. “I heard about your loss and I’m very sorry. This must be an extremely difficult time for you.”

Sam shrugged, orange shirt pulled across his shoulders. “I’ve been better.”

Rachel nodded, sympathetic. “I see. Have you given any thought to who you’re going to go stay with, if you do get released?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. Hadn’t thought about a life outside of these bars for months and months. Hadn’t wanted to. Sometimes felt as dismal as life inside them.

Rachel opened her own file on him and Sam wondered about all the documents floating around with his information. The state’s office, his defense lawyer, this social worker. Fragments of him inside a manila folder and stamped with ink.

“Your aunt passed away several months ago.” Rachel began, paused reflectively. “Have you heard from your uncle recently?”

“No,” Sam said, tried to bite back his bitterness.

"Are there any other relatives you'd like us to reach out to?"

Sam thought it about if for a moment. “Can’t I stay with my real parents?" he asked. "I mean, if I asked them. If I could just find out who they were...”

Rachel paused, figured out how she was going to deliver the news. “Your birth parents chose to have a closed adoption, Sam. That means their information is sealed.”

Sam didn't understand what that meant. “Can’t you unseal it?”

“Not without a court order,” Rachel said.

Anna nodded in confirmation.

Sam gritted his teeth, felt helpless frustration rise in his gullet. “But, like, don’t you think this is kind of an emergency?” he asked. “Maybe if they knew what happened to me, they’d care. Maybe they’re even trying to find out about me right now!” Sam saw the sympathetic crease in Rachel’s forehead, couldn’t stand being pitied anymore. Slammed his fists on the table. “I’m not going to live in a fucking orphanage!”

Shock. Anna and Rachel exchanged glances, confirmed something between the two of them. He wasn’t the only angry kid they’d dealt with, and he wouldn’t be the last.

“There are a lot of services out there to help reunite families,” Rachel explained. “If that’s really what you want, I can help you go through your options. But keep in mind that families choose to have their records sealed for a variety of reasons. If we can find them, your birth family will have to approve whether or not you may contact them. If they refuse, there’s nothing else I can do. Do you understand?”

Sam nodded vigorously. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I want to try.”

“Alright,” she said. “Please be patient because this will take some time. But I’ll do my best to reunite you with your parents.”

Sam sighed. His previous excitement slowly returned. Chest swelled. A sort of hope. These two women, like angels sent to watch over him.

“Thank you."

Back in his cell, Sam pulled out the small shoebox of his belongings. He brushed past the burnt photos and removed his dad’s charm. Polished the face with his thumb. Smiled down at the head’s neutral face. From one of the older books Jessica had sent him, Sam removed the binding until he had enough string to loop through the charm’s hole and drape it over his neck. He touched the face, remembered the way his dad would rub it for luck. For the first time in a long while Sam felt he had a little bit of luck. He rubbed it again, hoped his luck would continue.

 

Sleep did not come easily that night. Sam was kept up by thoughts of his new family. He kept these thoughts close to his breast, tried not to get carried away with happy endings, but couldn’t help his wanting. Felt a wave of guilt, his parents burning inside a room. Nothing would replace them, but he couldn’t bear the thought of struggling through the rest of his life alone.

Sam lay stiffly on his mat and the hours ticked by. He stared at the ceiling, into the dark.

He heard footsteps in the hallway. The heavy sound of steel-toed boots, a correctional officer. Nightshift guards made their usual rounds about now. Sam turned his head and glanced casually at the crack under his cell door, a thin line of light from outside. He waited for the sound of footsteps to pass but they stopped, the ribbon of light under his door broken by a pair of boots.

Sam sat up slowly, stared at the broken light with a gnawing curiosity. Debated whether to approach, to ask what they wanted. But then the figure retreated.

Sam jumped out of his bed and stood in front of the iron door. There was no window or food hatch like in solitary. He could see nothing; only hear the sound of footsteps fading.

“Hello?” Sam whispered sharply, pressed himself against the cold door and listened for a reply. Silence, could no longer hear retreating feet. “Dean?” Sam asked, suddenly breathless. “Dean? Is that…is that you?”

Nothing. Then the sound of footsteps headed towards his cell. They stopped. Felt like hours stretching by and still nothing. Sam’s heart beat furiously, sweaty palms. Eager, terrified.

“I uh, I wanted to thank you for bringing my books back,” Sam said carefully. Face pressed against the cold iron, speaking low but clear. To who or what he still wasn’t sure. “I thought they were gone.” Waited, still nothing. “I thought you were gone.”

“Should get some sleep, Sam. It’s late.”

His voice was like a low rumble of thunder, passed through the metal and shook Sam at his core. “Dean?” he laughed, felt hot tears in the corners of his eyes. Wiped at them, embarrassed at his own relief. “Is it- is that really you?”

“No it’s the Wicked Witch of the West. Who do you think?”

Sam smiled, felt he had been dreaming of someone watching him for a week but said nothing. “I don’t know. I didn’t know what had happened. I thought they’d arrested you, put you in prison too.”

“Just about,” Dean confirmed. “Fired my ass, looking at some heavy jail time cause Tom’s dad was pissed. Wanted my head on a silver platter. Something’d happen to me no one’s around to give a fuck but this kid gets a couple of bruises and someone’s got to pay.” Dean snorted. “But then that shit storm happened. You read that article I gave you? Now everyone can’t get away from Tom fast enough. His dad dropped the charges and the warden hired me back on the nightshift. Said to let bygones be bygones or whatever. Figured might as well, keep your ass out of trouble, if I can help it.”

Sam felt a warm satisfaction that he’d recognized Dean’s clues, his presence. That it wasn’t his wanting alone that had conjured up familiar shapes and images.

“So. You’ve been back…for a week?” Sam pried.

A pause. “Yeah. I uh, didn’t want to bother you. It’s going on 3 am here, Sam. And I know you’re in classes now. Should be focused on that.”

Spent more time thinking about Dean than about homework. Flushed at the thought. “Not really. Their standards are different from my school and I’ve already learned half of what they’re teaching. Been tutoring some of the other kids, actually.”

Heard a chuckle. “Geek.”

Sam smiled. “How’s the night shift?”

“It sucks,” Dean groaned. “My sleep schedule’s all fucked up. I go to work in the dark and when I get out the sun’s rising. This must be how vampires feel.”

Noted the weariness in Dean’s voice. Closed his eyes, tried to imagine Dean’s silhouette against the rising sun, splashes of color, yellow and orange. “I haven’t seen a sunrise in a long time,” Sam said. Everything felt out of reach and far away.

“Yeah? S’alright.” Dean cleared his throat after a moment. “You been okay?”

Didn’t know how to answer that. Felt peace that Tom was going to be put away, excitement that his own justice might soon be coming, and driven half out his mind not knowing where Dean was. So he just said he was okay. “I met with my lawyer today,” Sam continued. “Gave me a lot to think about, like this plea deal I was offered. It would get me out when I was 18. She said it was a pretty good deal.”

Stretch of silence. “You take it?”

“No.”

“Good.” The answer was quick, clipped.

Sam leaned against the door. “I think about what you did with Tom sometimes and I wonder if I could have done the same thing. I wanted to. But this, not taking this deal, is one way I know I can be strong, fight back. I don’t want to take the easy way out.” Took a deep breathe. Let it out, deflated. “But if I lose, I could be in prison for a long time.”

“Then don’t lose.”

Sam scoffed. So simple. Wondered how Dean saw the world, black and white, hard right angles. “I’ve also been, um, thinking about where I’m going to go, after all of this.”

“...Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly.

“Probably gonna shack up with your family somewhere, right?” Dean ventured. “Some cottage in the woods or on the beach. Hell, even a hut in the Bahamas. Eat friggin’ coconuts every day.”

Sam snorted, rolled his eyes. “Not exactly. I don’t have any relatives that’ll take me in. But I found out before the fire that I was adopted. I could have another family out there, you know, waiting for me? The social worker I met with today said the records were sealed but she might be able to open them. My parents could find out who I am, and maybe they’d…want to take me back?” Swallowed, realized how desperate he sounded. 

“I don’t know, Sam. It’s a long shot,” Dean said. “You could end up with a bunch of deadbeats.”

Sam’s hope flickered, candle in the wind. Didn't want to think of that. “I’ll take that chance."

“What makes you think they even deserve you?” Dean asked, suddenly defensive. “I mean, they gave you up. I say screw ‘em. You’re better off without.”

Sam frowned. Didn’t understand Dean’s reaction, the possessive hilt, the word ‘deserve’. “Maybe they don’t,” he admitted. “I still want to know. I can decide later if I want to stay with them. But-” Sam hesitated. “What other options do I have? It’s not like...there's anyone else.”

Baited the hook and threw it out. Waited, but Dean said nothing, offered nothing. Stubborn silence. Sam reeled the line in with a sigh, laid his head on the door. Of course. Whatever pact they’d made Dean didn’t owe him that. Stupid.

“What if you had family out there, Dean. Wouldn’t you want to know?”

Dean chewed it over. “Doubt it,” he concluded. “Not gonna like what they find, so I don’t see the point. I don’t have much of a family to be a part of anyways,” Dean explained. “It's just my dad and I, and we don’t even talk. So what have I really got to offer anybody?”

Sam pressed his cheek against the cold metal door. “A GED and a give-em-hell attitude?”

Dean laughed, a rush of warmth. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Sam smiled. He thought Dean had a lot to offer. Even one person solely dedicated to you felt like a lot. He wondered about his own birth parents and thought if there was at least one person like Dean, he’d be alright.

“Hey, Sam?” Dean asked.

“Yeah?”

“Those books of yours, they’ve got a signature in the back. That your girlfriend or something?”

Question from left field. Sam frowned. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said bluntly.

“Oh.”

Awkward silence, Sam tried to fill it with an explanation. “She was a girl from my school. I…I liked her, but we weren’t going out or anything. She found out what happened and she wrote to me, sent me that stuff trying to cheer me up. It was nice of her. It helped me through a lot.”

“She still write?”

“…she moved.”

Sam didn’t want to explain that he had chosen to stop writing to Jessica. Didn’t want to explain how dirty he felt after Tom touched him. How broken, how tainted it made him feel. He stank of Douglas County Youth Services. Would never be able to wash it off, go back to the real world and pretend like everything was alright. Could never kiss Jessica knowing Tom had shoved a cock in his mouth.

“Her loss,” Dean said crassly. “But hey you got pictures of plenty of other chicks to look at, keep you in good company.”

The magazine. Sam winced at Dean’s tasteless shift in subject. “I don’t want that thing,” he said, felt angry even at the suggestion. “I could get in trouble and-I just don't want it.” Felt his anger hot across his temple but couldn't explain why. Frustrated. A hole in his chest at the mention of Jessica, her and everything he’d had and now he didn't. Wanted to cry but he was tired of crying. Tired of missing things and feeling empty. Wanted to move on with his life, beyond these four cement walls. But he was trapped, in the dark, with this pain in his chest that threatened to devour him alive.

“Sorry," Dean said, brusque. It wasn't an apology that made Sam feel any better.

"Dean..."

"Listen kid it's late, yeah? I gotta go."

Sam's throat was too dry to protest.

"I'll see you later, okay." And then Dean was gone just as quickly as he'd come. His footsteps faded away, left Sam alone. But that was okay, Sam was no stranger to the dark.

He sank to the floor, laid his head against the wall and let himself dream about a warm bed and parents who were worried sick. Parents that had been searching for him this whole time, who would find him someday, and bring him home. Sam fell asleep smiling at his fantasy. Dean's magazine, with its photoshopped images of women, sat under a pile of books, untouched.


	8. Chapter 8

It was half a week before Sam heard from Dean again. Unsatisfied with their last conversation, Sam slept lightly hoping to hear footsteps lingering outside his cell. Drifted in and out of a listless torpor spiked with strange dreams, vivid colors, and a warm need that coiled in his gut. Nothing he could remember in the morning, woke up hard and exhausted. Pumped his hips into his pillow and imagined it was someone else he was touching. Came with a whimper and flipped the pillow over to hide the stain.

That night he heard a soft knock on his cell, finally. The rap of knuckles and steel. Practically fell out of bed in his rush to answer. He tripped, sheets wrapped around his ankles, stumbling to the door.

“You alright in there?” 

“Yeah,” Sam answered quickly, kicked the sheet off from around his leg. “But where have you been?”

“What do you mean?”

Dean’s voice was hard. Sam hesitated, realized his heart rate had increased, suddenly guilty for his rush of excitement.

“I can’t swing by every night,” Dean admonished. “It’s not like when you were in solitary, Sam. I’m being watched more than I was before. It’d look weird.”

Weird. The word was emblazoned on his back like a scarlet letter. Made him feel nauseous. Weird. Nineteen and fifteen. An officer and an inmate. Boys. Weird.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Everything okay?”

Couldn’t find the words to describe how he was adrift. It felt impossible to reach through the wall of guilt and uncertainty erected between them. And Dean, who had anchored Sam before, felt like he was missing in some inexplicable way. Didn’t want Dean thinking he was a child though, over-reacting, overly-sensitive, a whiny little bitch. Showed he could bottle it up like a real adult.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

 Is this what made a man, stretched thin until breaking?

Gordon Walker was an eighteen-year-old nutjob; that was the best way Sam knew how to put it.

When they’d roomed together, Gordon could be amicable, even funny if you caught him in the right mood. But at any other moment Gordon was downright scary.

On his second day in Douglas County Sam witnessed Gordon Walker breaking this kid’s index finger just for pointing at him and saying “you.” Week later found him trying to drown someone else in the toilet. He’d never threatened Sam outright but Sam had woken up on more than one occasion to find Gordon staring at him in the dark. Just sitting there, watching him the way cats watch a dying mouse. After that, Sam slept with a dully sharpened pencil at night, just in case. Sam never said anything to Gordon, never confronted him about what a twisted creep he was, learned to keep his head down, grin and bear it.

Gordon’s trigger was a hairline fracture. Sam wasn’t going to risk setting him off.

Stuck in the same room together for hours at a time Gordon liked to tell tall tales of inflated machismo, where he was the sole hero in a corrupt world. But Sam never believed heroes knocked out someone’s teeth over five bucks.

He learned Gordon grew up poor as dirt on the bad side of town, east of Kansas City. At a young age he’d joined a gang called The Hunters out of what Gordon called “pure necessity.”  He also had a fascination with guns, owned a large collection, and talked about his .45 revolver the way some people talk about their pets. But Gordon didn’t need a gun to hurt you. He could turn anything into a weapon: toothbrushes, cutlery, could easily turn a sheet into a makeshift noose. It was an awful sort of creativity that Gordon excelled at.

Gordon’s enmity wasn't directed at inmates though, it was directed at cops. Gordon’s sister had died at the hands of a cop, shot in the dark because she had the misfortune of associating with Gordon, a known gang member. He spoke about his sister like she was an angel, had her name prominently tattooed in cursive on his back between a pair of wings and bleeding skulls. Gordon had sworn to kill the cop responsible but seemed satisfied making every other officer’s life a living hell. The correctional officers inside Douglas County Youth Services were no exception.

Gordon Walker hated every officer inside the correctional facility. That included Tom. But after Tom started to focus in on Sam, Gordon decided he hated Sam too. Thought Sam had invited this behavior on himself, had secretly fraternized with the enemy and got what he deserved. So Gordon leered, even spat in Sam’s direction. Called him jailbait, faggot, pig’s cum bucket, and a litany of other slurs that still knocked about in Sam’s head after it had happened, like there was something wrong with him, something disgusting. It wasn’t until Dean Winchester burst into his life with a pair of bloody knuckles and a cocky smile that Sam began to think maybe Gordon was wrong.

After Sam had bitten Tom, he was transferred to solitary and Gordon was released. It was a small relief to Sam to be moved into general without a roommate and without Gordon. But the relief was short-lived because that next morning Gordon Walker was re-admitted to Douglas County Youth Services, and re-assigned as his roommate.

At this point, Sam was convinced he was cursed.

“Well, well, well. Look who it is,” Gordon mused. Entered Sam’s cell with a bundle of new sheets and a bag of toiletries under his arm. “See they still got you locked up for settin’ your parents on fire, huh Carrie?”

Muscles tightened at the stupid pet name. Tension in his body and his room. “My name is _Sam_.”

Gordon unfolded the mattress in its steel frame next to his. Dumped his sheets on it. Stretched like he was trying to touch every corner of the room at the same time, claim it as his.

“Always said you were going about this prison thing wrong,” Gordon said. “Telling people you’re innocent. Cause you’d be a nasty little fuck if you’d actually done it. Could use that to your advantage.”

“I’m not interested in a life-long career in prison,” Sam countered. “Unlike you.”

Gordon shook his head. “Ought to get used to this,” Gordon warned cheerily. “Cause I bet I’ll be seeing plenty of you in the future. Hey! Maybe we’ll even be roomies in big-boy prison what do you think about that?” Gordon laughed.

Sam grimaced. “I’m going to get out,” Sam countered, but didn’t sound convinced.

Gordon shook his head. “State’s fucked you, lawyer’s fucked you, Tom’s fucked you.” Paused to leer at Sam who glared back hatefully. “Now you’ve been waiting, what? Two years just for a jury to fuck you? Don’t get me wrong, your optimism is cute and all. But you’re on the wrong side of this, kid. Trusting the wrong people from the start.”

Sam lowered his head, and said nothing. Every day as his trial approached, he felt he was walking closer to the edge of a cliff.

Gordon could see his distress. Nodded approvingly. Sat at the only desk in the room and started to move Sam’s things to make space for himself. Collected his books and moved them to one side. Caught the sheen of a thin, glossy magazine. He pulled it out with a lecherous smile and showed it to Sam.

“So Carrie, what have you been up to?”

The magazine was nothing, he said. Just a cousin with a bad sense of humor.  Was told he was lucky a gem like this got past the guards. Yeah, Sam agreed he was lucky. Knew better than to mention Dean Winchester whose signature was proudly scribbled across some anonymous woman’s ass. Fucking idiot, Sam thought warmly.

He got very little sleep that night. He was too on edge, Gordon next to him lying perfectly still like a board. Couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not. Sam listened to his breathing and after several long minutes, gambled that he was. Let out a low sigh. Might be able to relax enough to get a few hours. But then he heard a faint rapping on the door.

Sam froze. It was Dean. One night after they’d last talked? Sam hadn’t expected him this soon, or at all. Knew he had wanted to talk to Dean more but now, not like this. Not with Gordon the cop-hater lying right beside him. Tom's attention hadn't been his fault. But Dean. If Gordon found out about _Dean-_ Sam held his breath and listened.

His roommate's breathing was even. Maybe he hadn't heard? Sam started to relax.

But then there was another knock, louder this time.

"That for you, Carrie?"

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. Gordon's tight, quiet voice crawling over him in the dark. Clutched the sheets in a death grip.

"Go ahead, answer it," Gordon goaded him in whispers. "Tell the pig hello n' drop your pants around your ankles like a good boy."

Sam said nothing, feigning sleep, but Gordon wasn't fooled. "Once a cocksucker, always a cocksucker," he whispered hotly.

Silence like an eternity, and then the sound of footsteps slowly faded away. Dean had left, but that brought Sam no relief. 

He heard the sound of a mattress creaking, Gordon rolling on to his side with a sigh. "Don't like pigs, Carrie. But little shits like you have got to be the worse."

And then no one said anything more that night. Sam lay still still, felt hot tears falling across his face.

When the lights were switched back on, it happened quickly. Sam heard Gordon stir and he tried to jump out of bed before his roommate. But Gordon flew out of his cot, had Sam pinned against a wall before both of his feet were on the ground. Sam knew one of them was going to spill their blood on the floor.

“Fuck you!” Sam challenged. “Go ahead. I’m not afraid of you Gordon. I’m not afraid of anything anymore.” Clenched his fists and shook with anger. In his head, imagined Dean beating Tom, and his muscles tightened with self-righteous fervor.

But Gordon just saw a leaf shaking in the wind.

“Bet they were all lining up outside that door,” he growled. “Once you put out for Tom, once they knew what a slut you were. How you bend over for anything with a badge you fag-”

Sam swung a hard right, caught Gordon on the side of his face. Gordon’s head twisted to the side from the force, shut him up for a minute. World stopped for a second, both cellmates genuinely surprised.

Then Gordon wiped a sliver of blood from the corner of his mouth crooked into a smile. “You’re gonna regret that, kid.”

But Sam had never felt better, even if he knew what was coming because this time he wasn’t helpless in the face of it. He would fight, even if he went down swinging. “I’m not a kid anymore,” he said. And everything felt different.

Gordon snarled and lunged at him like an animal. It was a small consolation to Sam that even Dean had once had his ass handed to him.

The swelling had gone down by lights out. Sam lay on his bed that night, touching his face gingerly. There was a cut under his eye and on his lower lip. His knuckles were beat up, but overall he was feeling pretty damn good. The nurse gave him some NSAID’s to help with the pain but remembering the upper cut that sent Gordon on his ass, before Bobby and Ellen came in to break them up, was all the relief he needed.

Sam had come out bloodied at the end, but it worked to his advantage. They shoved Gordon into solitary without too many questions. Sam grinned, and winced, and grinned again. Considered this a rare personal victory and was excited to share what he’d done. Was happy to finally hear keys rustling at his door, to see Dean Winchester stepping inside. Wanted to make up for the time before, letting him go. 

Gordon's words - _once a cocksucker, always a cocksucker_ \- rang in is head. He pushed them aside.

“I heard what happened,” Dean said as he removed a flashlight from around his belt and approached the bed. Sat on the edge of Sam’s mattress and pointed the light in to his face. “Jesus.”

Sam squinted into the glare, raised a hand to protect his eyes. “Did you also hear I knocked Gordon out cold?”

“Am I supposed to be _happy_ about that?” Dean huffed. Drew his thumb over Sam’s cuts.

Sam Reached out and wrapped his hand around the flashlight. Turned his palm blood red. “I stood up for myself. I thought you would be proud.”

“I’m not proud of you getting into _fights,"_ Dean chided. "You might be getting out soon. You should focus on that, keep your head down.”

Sam frowned, irritated Dean couldn't see this for the defining moment it was: little kid from Kansas finally spits in the face of disaster and takes control back in his own life.

“It wasn’t _random_ ,” Sam explained. “Gordon was my roommate from before. He knew what Tom did to me. He blamed me for it, called me a _faggot,"_ Sam spat, trembled at the word. "He heard you knocking last night and… I just wanted to shut him up, that’s all.”

Light suddenly disappeared. World went black before his eyes adjusted to Dean’s distressed profile.

“Dick," he said quietly.

Sam scoffed. “Story of my life,” he smiled wryly. “Yeah, Gordon’s a dick. He’s always been a dick. But I’m glad it happened.”

“You’re glad you got your ass kicked?” Dean asked skeptically.

"Maybe," Sam smiled mysteriously. "I don't know how to describe it. Just feels good, like something's different."

Dean smiled down at him affectionately. Sam realized how long it had been since he’d even seen Dean, not just heard his voice. It was hard to make out anything clearly in the dark: hair, eyes, lips. Felt starved for the sight of him.

“Guess it could have been worse,” Dean concluded with a grunt. “Still got all your teeth, anyways.”

“Am I still beautiful?” Sam joked, pursed his lips and batted his eyes like he was modeling.

Dean rolled his eyes. “There’s no helping you there.”

Sam laughed, kicked at him playfully. Dean shoved his legs away and they both smiled.

“Thanks,” Sam said suddenly.

“For what?”

Sam hesitated. The thought of Dean as some kind of holy warrior, a cartoonish notion he still clung to. Childish. And he was trying to leave those things behind. A sudden, irreversible decision. “I wouldn't have been able to do this if...someone hadn’t stood up for me first.”

To his surprise, Dean laughed. “Gee thanks Dean, for making me even more of a juvenile delinquent!” he mocked.

“That’s not what I meant!”

But Dean dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “You could always take care of yourself, Sam. You never needed me.”

Silent. That wasn’t true.

“And hey,” Dean continued.  “Soon you’re gonna find that family of yours. Okay? And then you’re gonna live happily-fucking-ever-after. You’re gonna marry the hottest girl you can find, hell maybe even your high school sweetheart. Have some fat babies. Get a great job. You’re not gonna need to fight anybody in the real word, man. Not the apple-pie kind of life you’re gonna be living.”

Sam shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“You,” Dean insisted. “Getting the fuck out of here, out of this. Making something of yourself because I know you can. Cause you’re better than this Sam. Better than Gordon, than Tom, _this whole stinking place_.”

Sam cringed. Remembered when he was just some dumb punk shouting at Dean that he was better than him. And Dean didn’t even flinch, because he lumped himself into this “stinking place” as well. What Sam wouldn’t do, if he could take that back now.

“You can’t tell me what to do when I get out, you know,” Sam challenged. “You want me to live a white collar life? Well maybe I don’t want to now.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You can do whatever the hell you want, Sam. It’s just…you’re gonna get a second chance, okay? Lots of people don’t get that. All I’m saying is don’t waste it.”

“Well there go my dreams of being a carnie,” Sam said dryly.

Dean sighed, exasperated.

"Hey what if I become a fishmonger,” Sam continued, flippant. “Or a haberdasher? Or an eggler?” 

“I swear to god…” Dean muttered.

But then he said: “Or what if I want to live with you?”

Dean froze, stared at him with dilated pupils and filtering through a million responses. Dismissed them all.

“Ha. Gotcha,” Sam laughed weakly. Nudged Dean with his foot. Then stuck it in Dean's face just to be extra obnoxious. “Should see the look on your face. What, you think I like you or something? Eww. Sick.”

Dean swatted Sam’s foot away, didn’t quite smile. Lunged for Sam’s pillow and started to whack him with it. “You’re a fucked up kid, you know that?”

Wasn’t aggressive but Sam still curled into a ball to protect himself from the onslaught. “Stop it!” he complained, laughed. Tried to kick Dean away from him but Dean avoided it easily. The pillow blows were relentless. Eventually Sam surrendered. “Uncle! Uncle!” he cried. When Dean stopped Sam grinned up at him and added. “You’re old enough to _be_ my uncle.” Which started another round of pillow beating.

After a few minutes Dean tired of the game and tossed the pillow at Sam’s head.

“Jerk,” Sam muttered from underneath it.

_“Bitch.”_

Sam clutched the pillow to his chest, the stain from before pressed lecherously against his belly. “I want to go to California,” he finally said. The truth. “I’ve had my eye on Stanford. They keep pamphlets in the library and, well it looks nice.”

Dean nodded, approved. “Dude the chicks there are so hot. And their tits are like-” cupped his hands over his chest to indicate something approximately the size of freakishly large melons. “There’s gotta be something in the water.”

It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “And then after that, I want to go to law school. Be like, a defense lawyer or something. Help people. So no one has to go through what I did.”

“You’re gonna be the best, Sam. Regular Robert Shapiro, put OJ back out on the streets and everything.”

Sam’s smile stretched and then faltered. “But that’s even if I get out,” he countered. “…I could lose.”

“Bullshit,” Dean dismissed. “They’ll take one look at you and think ‘aww how cute, he couldn’t hurt a fly’!” Reached out and pinched his cheek.

Sam slapped his hand away. “I’m serious, Dean.”

“Yeah? Well so am I,” Dean said. “You’re gonna be fine. Karma’s already taken a dump on you so things have to get better right? It’s like statistically impossible for things to get shittier.”

Sam knew better than to believe that. “Of course, if I do lose, then you’ll be stuck with me until I’m eighteen. How old would that make you?” he taunted. “Practically dead I bet.”

Dean cuffed his ear. “I didn’t stay in this shit hole because I love it, Sam. I don’t want to see your ugly mug here one day longer than it has to be.”

Sam pouted, rubbing the back of his head. “I thought you said I was cute!”

“Yeah, well, I changed my mind.”

Sam smiled. Felt something warm and wild bloom in his chest, roots already buried deep in the soil of a young heart. He knew Dean wasn't supposed to doing this: visiting him, treating him like a kid brother or something. But even if it was wrong, or inappropriate, he didn't want it to stop.

“What about you?” Sam asked carefully. “What are you going to do? If you hate this job so much.”

Dean sighed like a tire slowly losing air. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just pick up and go, I guess.”

“You could go to California,” Sam suggested with no subtlety.

Dean laughed]. “And see you with a bunch of your dumbass college friends? No thanks.”

Everything felt like it was closing in fast. His trial rapidly approaching, his freedom. And with it the last day he would see Dean. Sam rubbed the back of his neck in thought, felt the spindly twine he’d pulled from a book, the weight of his father’s necklace. Sam curled the twine around his fingers and looped his head through the hole. The tiny charm spun on its string. Sam held it out in front of him.

“Here. I want you to have this," he said.

Dean turned on his flashlight for a better look. The half-melted pendulum reflected the glare, shone brilliantly in the dark.

“Dad picked it up somewhere in Tampa,” Sam explained. “Not exactly a family heirloom, but my dad used to wear it, said it would bring him luck. I doubt it’s true, but...I still want you to have it.”

Dean stared, transfixed by the face staring up at him blindly. “Sam, I can’t-“

“Don’t be a dick,” Sam admonished. “Just take it.” Pressed it against Dean’s chest and let go.

Dean caught it in his left hand. Held it high and stared.

Sam shrugged apologetically. “I know it’s kind of busted. You don’t have to wear it or anything but-“

“Sam, _I love it_.”

Second source of light in the cell, Dean smiling bright and wide. He gave the flashlight to Sam and draped the charm around his neck. Centered it on his chest and stroked it reverently.

“Yeah?” he asked, looked to Sam for approval.

It was perfect on him. As if Sam and its half-a-dozen other owners from Tampa to Kansas and who-knows-where-else from before, were only escorting it to its rightful owner. Sam’s chest swelled with pride, a part of himself draped around Dean’s neck.

“Yeah. It looks good.”

Dean rubbed the head like a genie’s lamp. Tried to milk its last remnants of “luck”.

“I’ll keep it under my uniform for now,” Dean said. Gave him a sly smile as he unbuttoned his shirt collar. “Only you and me’ll know it’s here.” Pulled back the collar of his black polo and the white t-shirt beneath. Flash of skin, collarbone, and ink.

Sam pointed the light at Dean’s chest, starting at the tattoo on Dean's skin. “What’s that?”

Dean’s smile vanished, replaced with a carefully neutral expression. He hesitated, stroking the marked skin before pulling his collar aside so Sam could see the tattoo etched over his heart. It was a tribal design Sam had never seen before: a flaming circle with a star drawn on the inside. Sam stared at it curiously for a long while, memorized it.

“Does it mean something?” he asked.

Dean was still tracing the outline of the circle like an old scar. “I got it for protection, supposed to ward off evil spirits. Demons and things.”

“I thought you weren’t into that stuff.” Sam rotated the light in his hands. Looked to see if there was an x-ray option. Wished he could peek under Dean’s skin, the cogs that made him turn, just to understand.

“Yeah, well, I was a kid, and I was desperate,” he said. Slid the necklace under his shirt and let his armor fall back into place. "Besides, it didn't work."

“It still looks cool,” Sam offered lamely. “Better than the name of your ex tattooed to your ass, I guess.”

Dean snorted. “My luck in that department’s been shit for a while anyways.”

Sam waved Dean’s flashlight in his face. “Yeah right. You act like you’re freaking Hugh Hefner. The only thing thicker than your little black book is the bible.”

“Maybe,” Dean agreed easily. Rolled his shoulder with a cocky smile, peacock spreading its tail. “But I don’t stick around for any of them. Sure as hell wouldn’t get anything as permanent as a _tattoo_.”

Small thrill of vindication, that Dean had stayed for him.

“Fuck,” Dean said suddenly, looking at his watch. “It’s late, I have to go. Get some rest, Sam. And put on a beauty mask or something you look like hell.”

Sam turned off the flashlight, handed it back to Dean who wrapped his arms around him instead, pulled him into a hug.

Pressed into Dean he could feel the rise and fall of his chest, smell the bitter tang of his cologne and heard Dean muttering as he held him: “You scare the shit out of me, Sam. You scare the ever-living shit out of me.”

Said nothing, only dug his fingers into Dean’s jacket. The cheap polyester crackled like dry lightning across the arid fields of Kansas.

Things changed too quickly, too fast. Left Sam with no understanding of why.

New charges were brought against Gordon Walker. The state no longer considered him a juvenile, so Gordon was transferred to the Topeka Correctional Facility where he would serve his time as an adult.

Rachel filed for a court order to open his adoption records. It was granted. She was in the process of contacting his birth parents.

His trial started that week. Anna visited him frequently to prepare his testimony.

He never saw Dean Winchester inside Douglas County Youth Services again.

 


	9. Chapter 9

****

**One month earlier.**

They sat him down and cleaned his wounds before they shoved him in front of the warden. Some forty-year-old nurse with unresolved bitterness about her career choice and a mole on her upper lip poured alcohol between Dean’s split skin. Hissed. She frowned, told him to sit still.

He wondered if anyone had discovered Tom lying unconscious in Alistair’s office, and if this ugly bitch’d be torturing him as well. Nah, Dean smirked, they’d have to haul his ass out of here in an ambulance, stick an IV in his arm. He’d probably leak like an old hose, would take a lot to tape that boy back together again. But who knows, all that work might’ve done Tom some good, like plastic surgery, set his lopsided jaw straight so he didn’t grin crooked. If he ever grinned again.

Dean sat and listened for the sirens, satisfied with himself while the nurse poked and prodded. Sam’d say Tom deserved every goddamn stitch he got. _Sam_. Name drudged up the memory of them, together; blood, justice, and maybe something a little less pure. White hot guilt shot up his nerves. Not the nurse’s fault this time but blamed her anyways.

After he was washed and wrapped up with gauze and a lime green Band-Aid was taped over his nose, Dean was led to a large office tucked away in some corner of Douglas County Youth Services he’d never been. Inside, the warden sat waiting for him.

The warden was a short, middle-aged man with thinning hair. He wore a sharp British-cut pinstriped suit and an equally sharp British accent. His name was Crowley, and Dean had seen him slithering around the prison before, forked tongue flicking out orders. Crowley didn’t have a presence that commanded respect, wasn’t intimidating like Alistair. But there was a collective feeling that those who worked for the warden owed him something deep and terribly personal.  

The office was lush, opulent, a display of wealth. Every corner of it had been carefully staged: wooden floors from front to back, walls of oaken cabinets, endless shelves stacked with important-looking books, curtains with ornate designs, exotic flowers, priceless vases, and numerous paintings in gold-gilded frames. The largest of these paintings hung in the back of the office and dominated the space. Dean recognized it: Michael the archangel casually standing on the back of some cowering man with leather wings, a demon, probably the devil.

The eternal fight against good and evil cast the room in an anxious light and Dean felt guilty in its presence.

Crowley sat in the center of the room at an intricately carved desk. He beckoned Dean to join him and Dean sank into an overstuffed leather chair on the other side of the desk, already felt like one of the shiny trinkets decorating the shelves.

“Well if it isn’t the infamous Mister Dean Winchester,” the warden crooned, legs and fingers crossed. “I hear you’ve been a very busy boy, Mister Winchester. Beating our poor little Tom into a bloody pulp.”

The full weight of what he’d done rushed in on him. No matter how noble his intentions, there must be dire consequences for what he’d done. Dean stared at the floor and fidgeted with the gauze around his bruised knuckles. Reverted to some earlier age in his childhood when answers were demanded and he could provide none. “Yessir.”

“Then let me be the first one to extend my gratitude.”

Dean could still feel the painting of Michael bearing down on his shoulders like a weight. When he looked up to see the warden smiling at him it felt like a small, twinkling light of saving grace.

“Today has been a _massive_ headache,” the warden complained. “That little problem we had this morning? Drugs, contraband, a dead inmate. Nasty stuff. If it ever gets out of these four walls, I’m in quiet a pickle, Dean. Lucky for me the kid didn’t have any family, no one’s going to miss him. But the last thing I need is for some dead-beat reporter trying to make a break for themselves, sniffing about where they don’t belong. Understand?”

No, but nodded anyways.

“But,” Crowley continued, “I’ve been in this business long enough to know the quickest way to get rid of a scandal is an even bigger scandal. _Preferably_ a scandal that I control.” The warden leaned back in his chair, smiled at Dean, about to announce checkmate. “And that’s where you and Tom come in.”

Dean stared at him blankly. It was like watching a film, blind. Heard the strands of dialogue but struggled with the context.

“Tomorrow morning the papers are going to read ‘Officer Arrested for Perversion,’ or some such thing, however those shrews down at that local paper want to shape it. And _you’ll_ be the hero of this particular story, Dean. ‘Dean Winchester,’ it’ll say, the warden drew his hand broadly like the font for the local gazette was set at +500 points, ‘The man who saved the day, saved our children.’ How does that sound?”

Crowley watched him expectantly but Dean shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

The warden leaned forward across his desk. “I’m talking about a _cover-up_ ,” he said bluntly. “Tom’s sexual deviancy gets front page, and not what happened here today. You help me make this drug thing go away Dean, and I won’t press charges for assaulting my officer and initiating sexual contact with one of my underage inmates. Is _that_ clear enough?”

The archangel bore down on him with the full judgment of heaven. Pierced by his lance, Dean sank into the warden’s chair, lowly like the demon beneath his foot.

“And don’t try to be the martyr on this one,” Crowley warned. “You are entirely expendable to me Mister Winchester. I could just as easily reverse your place with Tom. It just so happens that I like you better. But after what you did to him, I imagine that little shite would _jump_ at the chance to throw you under the bus. Care to take that chance?”

Dean hid his face in shame, hopes crushed. Crowley wasn’t offering any saving grace, just a temporary detour from hell. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Don’t be so down in the mouth,” Crowley sneered. “I’m offering you my help, Dean. You ought to be more _grateful_. You’ve earned yourself two weeks of paid vacation, so relax! After two weeks, when you’ve undoubtedly drunk yourself under a table, and shagged yourself back into your good senses, then you can come back to work for me.” Sliding of wood, a drawer opening and then a thick stack of paper dropped onto the desk. “Because I’ll own you.”

Dean stared at the contract ominously, the top page with a line at the bottom that asked for a signature, his life signed away.

“And I know what you’re thinking. ‘He’s letting me walk scot-free, why don’t I just run?’” Crowley said, temporarily adopted an American accent for the sole purpose of mocking him. “But let me remind you, you’re not the only one I own Mister Winchester.”

Narrowed his eyes, ran through the short catalogue of targets Crowley was threatening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The warden groaned, threw himself back into his chair with such force that it spun in a slow circle. He shook his head and massaged his temples. “You know it’s not very fun to menace people when I’ve got to explain _every_ bloody detail,” he sighed. “It means Sam Wesson, you idiot. It means I can make his last bit of time here cushy, or I can make it a living hell. It’s _your_ choice.”

Dean scoffed. “What makes you think I care about that kid?” he asked carefully.

They both evaluated each other for a moment. “How about this,” Crowley proposed. “I’ll move him out of solitary, back into general population. I can even give him his own cell. He’ll be as comfortable as you can be in this place. _And_ I’ll even call the public defender’s office, remind them to assign him a new lawyer. Who knows, he could even be out by the end of the month.” The warden smiled. “Or, he gets none of that, and you spend your brightest years in prison. How does that sound?”

Like there wasn’t much choice after all. Dean swallowed, stared at the contract. Any animal backed into a corner will take the first way out. “What do I have to do?”

“Just sign,” said the warden. He pick up a pen and casually rolled it across the desk.

Dean caught it, scanned the page but the words blurred together. He couldn’t read a single line. Licked his dry lips and signed his name in scrawling cursive.

Two weeks of purgatory followed. Two weeks to think about what he’d done. The lead up to all of this, some kid in cell H-6.

Like Crowley suggested, Dean developed a habit of drinking heavily, alone. A collection of Jack Daniels bottles sat on his window ledge casting long shadows in the evenings, bars on a window. Didn’t shag himself silly though. Head wasn't on straight. Couldn't get his dick to work without thinking of the wrong things. So decided to work on his car instead. Opened Baby up, gutted her, and put her back together again. Repeated the process over and over again, convinced there was something mucking up the works, didn’t purr for him the way she used to, just sputtered and coughed like she was sick. So he worked on her endlessly, for days at a time, sure that if he could fix his Baby, he could fix himself.

Because there _was_ something wrong, some faulty part or cog in him. Didn’t know if it had broken over time or if he was born defective but the cause was clear as day: he was fucked in the head, simple as that.

Tom had been right all along. Wasn’t sorry for driving his fists into that fucker’s face, not one bit, but there should have been somebody behind Dean to cut him out of the picture too. Because Dean had  _kissed_ that kid. That wild kid that nobody could tame, could understand, had chosen him, offered himself to Dean. But it wasn't the lust that tore away at Dean's insides, it was the desire to possess. Sam had been his, totally his, for a brief second. Not like all the women Dean had been with. Where he charmed them with his good lucks and dirty jokes; effortless. Dean had earned the kiss Sam had given him. And now he couldn’t get it out of his head. Like a bad top 40’s song the image played on repeat, more corrupted every time. Thoughts of Sam’s lean body: his chest, the crack of his ass. What Dean had seen through the window hatch and his own libidinous experiences, remixed into some awful collage of muscles and sweat and come.

Waking to his own _Metamorphosis_ , Dean was horrified at the monster he felt he’d become. Started to doubt his intentions from the very beginning: denying Bela, choosing to stay, all for the course of inevitably getting his dick sucked. He panicked at the thought. Didn’t want to be that eight-year-old kid again, or the old man that clung to him like a layer of soot he could never scrub clean.

Pulled himself out from under the Impala and couldn’t breathe, like she had fallen on his chest. On his knees, held the Impala’s sides, and choked back hot tears.

God, all those miles he’d run, it would always come back to him.

By the time he could see out of his left eye again, Dean picked up a newspaper and found an article about Tom Milligan buried on the sixth page. It read like an accident, stank like a setup and despite Crowley’s grandstanding, he wasn’t mentioned, even as a footnote. The hero of that story, if there was one, was the cleaning lady that discovered those planted images on Tom’s computer. But Dean didn’t care because _this_ was poetic justice, contrived, manipulated.

Cut out the article and practically framed it on his wall.

Dean worked the nightshift now, drove to Douglas County Youth Services at 10 pm and stumbled outside when the sun started to shine: the start of everyone else’s day and the end of his. Exhausted, he draped a blanket over the windows in his motel room to block out every square inch of sun that threatened to bleed through. But it wasn’t enough to buffer him from the cheery screeching of birds. Moaned and buried his head under a pillow.

His first night back all Dean cared about was holding Crowley accountable. He confirmed the transfer order that moved Sam out of solitary and back to the row, personally took Sam’s books out of storage and moved them to his new cell. He swiped that skin mag back from his old office (still sitting in the trash) and scrawled his name on the back. It was an autographed greeting to Sam and another contract, a personal commitment to tits, ass, and two pairs of pretty pink lips.

After that, Dean was satisfied. He’d kept his word, put Tom away and made Sam safe. Figured his part in this drama was done, would keep his head down and work on his end of the contract. It wasn’t hard, Crowley kept him busy. Every other night he was unloading trucks with another guard named Johnny. The trucks backed into the loading zone so he and Johnny could drag out box, after box, until the sun peeked over the horizon. Every night it was something different. The trucks would bring produce for the kitchen or basic supplies like blankets and uniforms. Once there was just a truck full of shoes.

“How many friggin’ sneakers do these kids go through?” Dean growled, glanced warily at Alastair who sat at the end of the loading dock flipping through a magazine for knife collectors and enthusiasts.

Johnny shrugged, and kept going. His partner Johnny was thin, emaciated with a haunted look in his eyes. He rushed to get nowhere, like he was constantly being whipped at the heels. Dean looked closely but never found the demons that were driving him.

The nights they weren’t unloading trucks, he and Johnny were re-loading empty ones. These boxes were heavier, sealed tight, took all fucking night to load.

Dean was increasingly miserable. Kept trying to figure out why the trucks would only come at night, why fucking inmates couldn’t load and unload them (like child labor laws would ever stop Crowley). After twenty minutes of that shit he took a break, right inside the truck where Alistair couldn’t see. Dean sat on the edge of one of the heavier boxes and lit up, was surprised to see Johnny sit down beside him and ask to bum one. They sat and smoked. It reminded Dean of his second day with Bobby. Felt bad, old man didn’t know Dean had signed his life away long before Crowley had sunk his claws in.

Dean turned to his partner with a smirk. “So, what are you in for?” he joked.

“Debt,” Johnny answered. “You?”

Dean’s smirk faded at his partner’s punchline. Hadn’t expected him to be that candid or that brusque. “Heh. I-uh…what?”

“Gambling debt,” Johnny explained. “I was in over seventeen grand, had the mob on my ass. I was good as dead until Crowley bailed me out.”

“You’re telling me _Crowley_ loaned you money?” Dean asked skeptically.

“I work here to pay him back,” Johnny confirmed.

“But why the hell would he do that?” Dean asked. Could understand the warden wanting him to keep quiet, but why would he need to blackmail some random Joe Schmoe.

“So that I would keep quiet, I guess,” Johnny shrugged. “Not ask questions. Plus I have a wife and a kid, you know. They had no idea how bad it was and I want to keep it that way.”

“He made you sign a contract,” Dean concluded.

Johnny laughed. “Everybody who works here has a contract, Dean.” He took a final drag and threw the cigarette outside the truck. It fell against the wheel, a small pinprick of light in the dark. “This place isn’t just a prison you know, it’s hell.”

Dean cursed silently, flexed his fingers and debated whether he should just keep walking. His own fault, really, for sweeping by every night like a protective dog. But Sam would probably have kept talking until the paint peeled if he hadn’t said anything.

“Should get some sleep, Sam. It’s late.”

It was a warning, or more like a plea to let him disappear back into the night. Sam hated being a prisoner here but for once he should be happy there was an iron door separating them because Dean didn’t trust himself anymore.

“Is it- is that really you?”

Relief in Sam’s voice, like he actually missed him. Stupid kid.

Dean made up some bullshit excuse when asked where he’d been. Was actually a talented liar, all these years on his own, had just never used that particular skill set on Sam. It was for their own good, though. No point in admitting he’d sold himself out for some 15-year-old kid because there was nothing either of them could do about it now.

“I could have another family out there, you know, waiting for me?”

He was arbitrarily jealous of this family, whoever they were. They didn’t know what they gave up. Sam was a good kid. Whatever he thought of Dean, Sam was ten times that and more. He thought of the empty seat of his car, his dirty motel room, his life held together by sporadic paychecks and microwave burritos. Admitted he was in no better place to take care of him. Lifting boxes of shoes and stealing snippets of conversation through an iron door was the best he could do. And he was glad to do it.

Unloading another truck, back-breaking work. A few years of this and Dean could easily see himself thin and broken like Johnny. Course, didn’t plan to stick around that long. Grunted with the weight of another box. It shifted in his grasp, tried to catch it but it fell, toppled to the ground. The bottom gave out, cardboard split open and bundled blankets wrapped with plastic ties spilled onto the dock. Knelt to pick them up, stuff them back inside when three small packets of yellow powder fell out of the folded fabric. Dean stared, didn’t realize what he was seeing until Johnny dropped to his knees and finished stuffing the contents-rolled blankets, plastic bags- back into the box.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Johnny hissed, folded the box closed again and shoved it at him. “Pick it up and _keep going_.”

His partner scuttled away from him like a frightened kitten and Dean was overwhelmed with dread. He knew drugs. Nights with Bela and white powder and feeling like you could fly. He knew their shape, color, consistency. And he knew where you hid them when you didn’t want anyone to look.

Yellow powder, the faintest hint of sulfur, something new, like Ellen had described the morning Alan Corbett died. This was Black Eye, inside Douglas County Youth Services this whole time, and he had been blackmailed to ship it.

Dean clutched the box to his chest, numb.

Knocked on Sam’s cell door, no answer.

The warden shrugged, seated behind his rich mahogany desk. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Was calm in the face of Dean’s seething rage. “You look tired. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

“I _found_ what was in those boxes you sonofabitch!” Dean accused sharply. “That’s why you wanted a cover-up so goddamn badly wasn’t it? You didn’t want anybody finding out _you_ brought that shit in here. Hell, you might as well have killed that kid yourself!”

“Why don’t you sit down?” Crowley invited.

But Dean was too incensed with righteous fervor. “That special force was all for show too, searching the cells but not the storage units. Is this your distribution center, or just one link in a chain? Tell me, goddamnit, how far up the food chain does this thing go?”

Crowley smoothed the front of his suit, wouldn’t budge. “You’re a little sore from being made a fool of, I understand. But why don’t you sit down, before you say something you _regret_.”

“You’re not gonna get away with this,” Dean warned. “I swear I’m gonna pull you off your throne, Crowley. If it’s the _last_ thing I do.”

The warden’s serene veneer finally snapped. “What makes you think you’re so much better than me you twerpy little shite?” Crowley sneered. “You have a petty criminal record the length of a Tolstoy novel. You’ve probably spent most of your miserable little life shooting up, half out your bloody mind. Don’t you dare preach to me. You are a nobody, Dean, a nothing. The most useful you’ve _ever_ been is working here, for me. So don’t start trying to be the hero now!”

Dean stood there, clenching his fists.

“We’re going to have a pleasant little conversation about your future here,” Crowley continued through a gritted smile. “Now, sit _down_.”

Sunrise, shafts of pink and yellow light cut across the sky. Dean blinked at the sunlight, surprised every time night turned to day. Felt like it had been night for hundreds of years. He drew a line in the morning dew that gathered on the shining black hood of his car and dug for the keys in his pocket. The sound of the waking prison behind him was like a stirring monster.

“Morning.”

Dean heard a gruff, familiar voice and found Bobby Singer standing behind him gripping two cups of cheap gas station coffee.

“Hey,” Dean answered, wary. The last he had seen Bobby, covered in Tom’s blood and the heat of Sam.

“You look like shit,” Bobby said, handed him a styrofoam cup, hot and blunt. A peace offering, or a temporary stalemate, either way Dean accepted.

“So I keep getting told.”

“Place puts ten pounds an’ ten years on ya. Least that’s my excuse.”

Dean smirked. Bobby drank his coffee. They stood and listened to birds chirping as the sun continued to rise. Bobby knew the familiar call of the local northern rough-winged swallow, its short, sharp, low-pitched call, liked to listen to it in the mornings. Dean’s head was still ringing with the sound of Crowley’s threats.

“So how’s the night shift treatin’ you?” Bobby asked.

“Like shit.”

Bobby nodded like he understood and Dean wondered how much. Ran his hand over the breast of his jacket, felt the sharp outline of a cassette tape. “Bobby. Do you have a contract?”

Old man wiped at the brim of his cup. “What do you mean?”

“With Crowley.”

Lips drawn into a tight line and then Bobby nodded that he did, took another long sip of his coffee. “Used to be a cop in another county,” he admitted. “Got shot by some dumbass punk thinkin’ he’s the next Jesse James. I sat in a wheelchair for months, Dean, thought I’d never walk again when what’s his face, the warden, finds me one day and says how would I like to work in juvie? I said how the hell am I supposed to wrangle kids in this metal armchair of mine? Next thing I know he’s paying for my  recovery treatment and here I am.”

“And that doesn’t seem weird to you?” Dean pressed.

“It’s weirder n’ a two-headed pig!” Bobby said. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Dean. I know this place stinks something rotten. I know Crowley’s bent, I know the cops are too. And I sure as hell know that when Tom does something like what he did, the administration’s _not_ supposed to turn their backs.”

Dean lowered his eyes at the mention of Tom. “Yeah well, that bit turned out alright didn’t it?”

Bobby studied him for a beat. “Didn’t have one when you came in but warden got to you too didn’t he?”

Dean was silent.

“Thought as much,” Bobby confirmed. “Let me give you a piece of advice son: whatever, or whoever, you’re hanging around here for, cut it loose. It ain’t worth killing yourself over. And that’s what you’re doing, kid, since the day you stepped foot in this place. I don’t know what it is, but something’s eating you from the inside out.”

Dean laughed bitterly. “You need to work on your pep talks.”

“Ain’t no pep talk!” Bobby said. “You’re young, Dean. And you’re actin’ like the road’s gonna end for you soon but it won’t. You’ve got a long patch of highway in front of you. Need to realize that, and start thinking about the consequences.”

Dean shook his head. “You sound like my old man,” he muttered distantly.

“Well, I’m an old man at any rate.”

“Bobby, this place, it’s more rotten than you know,” Dean said slowly. “And maybe you’re right, maybe I should go but I have the opportunity to fix something. To do the right thing. I can’t go until I’ve done that,” Dean concluded, solemn.

“I don’t know _what_ you’re jabbering on about,” Bobby said, “but if you gotta fix something, you fix it.”

“I’m going to,” tipped the Styrofoam cup like raising a beer glass, cheers. Dean opened his car door and sat inside, the vinyl seats creaked in greeting. As Bobby disappeared inside the detention center he slid a cassette tape into the player of his car, put the Impala in drive and listened to Crowley’s voice on the way home: sinister admissions to his sins in Douglas County.

Cuts and bruises on Sam’s face. Crowley’s decision to put Gordon in the same bunk as Sam and that was the last straw for him.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “That shouldn’t have happened.” Wanted to confess to everything, his contract, his discovery, the way Sam’s smile made his blood pump, but Sam didn’t understand what he was trying to say.

They both knew this was goodbye, though.

Sam gave him his family heirloom, this weird little amulet with horns and spiral markings that was half-melted on one side. The kid had _nothing_ and he still managed to share part of himself. Dean can’t say no, doesn’t want to anyways. Draped it over his neck and beamed. Something beating in his chest, some shriveled organ he forgot he had. He loved this kid so much it scared him.

Dean slipped a yellow package into the metal slot of the post office across town, neat print spelling out the Sheriff’s address in Lawrence. By the time it got there he’d be long gone. Headed back to his motel to finish packing, slowed down as he saw the flash of red and blue lights, three cop cars parked in front of his building. Dean pulled over and watched as three officers kicked down his friggin’ door and tore his place apart. The neighbors stood outside in various stages of curiosity and undress. A fourth officer was already taking testimony, probably writing down the make and model of his car.

“Fuck,” Dean hissed. He knew Crowley had set him up, the place was probably littered with drugs and most of them wouldn’t be his. Trying to frame each other but the warden had more muscle to flex.

Dean shifted the Impala into gear and whipped around, raced down the street in the opposite direction. Things were in motion now, pieces had all been set in place and he couldn’t go back. He raced to the edge of town, shaking with anxious adrenaline. Foot itched at every stop light, jumped at every car, expected to be pulled over and slammed against a hood with every passing second. He had run from cops before but Dean knew this wasn’t the same. Bred by Crowley the cops here would be hellhounds on his tail until they devoured him, or until he got out of the state.

Dean headed north-east, drove just to feel the wind in his hair, the purr of Baby beneath him (she sounded better than she ever had). Ran and it felt good, felt right. Ran up to the edge of the sunflower state until he realized where he was going, like he was on autopilot. He pulled over on I-635 just under a sign that greeted “Welcome to Kansas”. Normally a bright blue like the endless sky it was a dreary gray, overcast sky, the threat of heavy rain. Dean gripped the steering wheel tight with red-rimmed eyes, steeling himself for what he had to do. He reached into his pocket to pull out his cellphone. That and the wallet in his back-pocket where all he could take with him. Dean ran down the list of numbers and pressed dial.

Heart was pounding in his chest as the other end rang: once, twice, three times, voicemail. Was still shaking as he listened. “It’s me,” he said, after the beep. “Look I know I’ve left messages before and I don’t even know if you get them but this time…this time’s different.” Swallowed, throat constricted. “I fucked up. I fucked up so bad and I- I don’t know what to do.” Ran a hand across his face, brushed back hot tears. “I need your help, okay? _Please_. Dad.”

Dropped the phone in his lap and laid his head on the wheel to steady himself. Felt dizzy even though he wasn’t moving. Cars passed by, counted them like minutes and after the fifth his phone rang. Dean sat up stiffly, hesitated for a split second and then answered.

“I’ve been waiting for this call for a long time.” Voice on the other end gruff and stern, only thing that could make Dean sit up straight and stare at attention. “Been waiting for you to get your head screwed on right. Started to think it would never come.”

“Dad,” he said, like a plea.

“Cops looking for you?” John asked.

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” not the first time they’ve had this conversation. “Take the back roads, keep to the speed limit, don’t do anything dumb to call attention to yourself. Got that?"

"Yessir."

"How far out are you?”

“Few hours.”

“Okay,” John confirmed. There was a long pause, each apprehensively waiting for the other. “Could have come home anytime you wanted,” his Dad finally said. “Didn’t have to wait till you were in trouble.”

Dean hung up, gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Deep breath. Pulled back onto the highway and drove into the approaching storm.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Dean followed his father’s advice: drove through small towns, stopped at every light, even doubled back a couple of times. Pointless, though. No one was following him. Breezed past the Kansas border into Missouri and only saw one state trooper pulled over on the side of the road. Lights flashing. Had caught some other asshole speeding. Too easy, Dean laughed as he raced into Illinois. Thought for sure some invisible hand would come down and sweep him into jail: do not pass Missouri, do not fucking collect your last paycheck. But Karma had yet to kick him in the ass, and God had been silent for a long time (since the beginning of the Big Bang he guessed).

The only kind of justice Dean had observed first hand was the kind you could buy, like Crowley, trading in favors and borrowed souls. And if you couldn’t afford that, well, the best you could do was try and outrun the inevitable.

So Dean drove through the rain for six hours to Normal, Illinois, to his father’s hometown. They had moved here after his mom died, picked up and left Lawrence behind them. Dean resented it. He’d been clinging to the last shreds of his mother and the new home with its smell of fresh paint felt like white-washing her memory.

John picked up a job as a mobile mechanic, traveling to different towns, sometimes even different states. He’d pay some woman to look after him, different one every week. But Dean remembered that they all had Mary’s long, blonde hair. Like John was trying to comfort him somehow. Like he couldn’t tell the fucking difference.

When Dean was seven John stopped paying for babysitters. He was left alone with a wad of cash and a vague set of dates when his dad was supposed to return. Dean cooked and cleaned for himself, went to school where little kids would whine about their parents. Mommy and Daddy didn’t let them go over to a friend’s house, wouldn’t buy them that game they wanted-wah,wah,wah. Constantly got into fights.

Dean blew past the borders of that small town when he was sixteen, looking for what his father found in all those other states. Work, escape, but never any satisfaction. Four years later and he was back, tail between his legs. Wasn’t any wiser than when he left, just older and angrier.

Finally, Dean pulled into the driveway of a low-ceilinged single family bungalow with an empty yard. Plenty more houses like this lining the street but his dad’s truck was parked on the side of this one. There used to be trees that lined this road, and a small forest in their backyard. Cut it all down and improved their view with subdivisions instead. Rain fell like sheets. He had brought the storm with him. Garage door was open and Dean pulled inside, got out of the car. Smell of fresh rain and the musty age of the garage mixed together, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Old stagnant memories refreshed by familiar surroundings.

“Dean.” Gruff, tired voice. It was his dad. Stood in the doorway that led to the house and hit the button that closed the garage. “She holding up alright?” John asked as the door labored to close, glanced at the Impala.

Nerves shot up and down Dean’s leg. Part of him still wanted to run, roll under the closing the door and make a break for it. Window of opportunity getting smaller, and smaller, but Dean’s self-preservation instincts had long since eroded. He stood there and nodded, “Yessir.”

Remembered his dad standing in that doorway years ago with the same disappointed frown on his face. Since his mother had died John was less of a father and more of a drill sergeant. Why aren’t these dishes clean? What’s this stain on the carpet? What the hell do you do all day you can’t clean up after yourself? Do I have to hire somebody to wipe your ass again? Damnit, Dean!

The anger in his voice, Dean stared at the floor and knew better than to challenge him.

Nothing had changed.

“That’s a surprise. Just look at it. Didn’t you ever once think of getting the car touched up?” John accused. “Thought you worshiped that damn thing. Would have chased you across the country myself if I’d have known you were gonna _ruin_ it.”

Dean, reduced to a humiliated little kid in front of his father, no matter how old he got. Yessir. Nosir. Sorry sir.

“Sorry sir,” Dean muttered, handed his father the keys, returned his father’s property.

John stared hard at his son, considered the gesture and softened. “C’mon,” he grunted. “Pizza’s getting cold.”

Inside the house, threw the keys on the dining room table. They landed next to a cardboard pizza box that his dad opened. Shuffled a few squares onto two paper plates and sat down. Dean recognized the pizza parlor blocks away from his house. He would eat there a couple of times a week when his dad took off. Pizza cut into squares the way some Midwestern states do. Could never figure that one out.

There was a pack of beers next to the pizza as well. John pulled two off, opened one for himself and motioned for his son to join him. They had never shared a beer together, mark of passage between father and son. Besides dirty bed sheets and buried secrets.

Dean eyed the pizza, coagulated cheese, circles of pepperoni. He was wary of the setup, but too hungry to reject it. Sat down, accepted the beer, the pizza, and started to eat.

They ate in silence. Dean was grateful he didn’t have to stumble through a conversation, figure out what to say. Felt like he owed an explanation to John for disappearing.  Four years was plenty of time to think of a billion ways to tell his father where to cram it. Liked to play out this scenario in his head where a chorus of angels was singing and finally it was John staring at his feet in shame and not him.

But Dean never talked about the things that haunted him. And neither did John. Only blood kept them strung together.

“Been gone awhile,” John remarked casually, like commenting on the weather. “Lot's changed. That uh, that girl Cassie, old flame of yours wasn’t she?  Got engaged last month, some fellow accepted to Harvard.”

Dean grunted, continued to eat.

“And your friend Walt joined the military. Against my advice. Still, he was a little rough around the edges, it might do him some good. Should consider it for yourself, Dean.”

Dean scowled, grabbed another square of pizza and shoved it in his mouth.  Jowls slapped together like a cow. Watched with satisfaction as his father’s face wrinkled in disgust.

“Close your damn mouth when you chew,” John commanded. “And sit up when you’re at the table. Don’t slouch like that. What the hell did I teach you?”

Shuffled, muttered an apology. Straightened his back like his father directed. Not that it mattered. John always found something to castigate. Dean, the black sheep of their tiny little family and all.

“Anyways,” John continued. “What I meant to say. Lots of things have changed. Including you, Dean. You’ve grown, maybe not a man yet, but…” His father scooped up the keys to the Impala, reached across the table and handed them back to his son.

Dean, curled his fingers around the keys. Stunned. His father was right, he did worship it. John rarely drove the Impala, kept it around for the style and the occasional car show. Would let Dean sit in the front seat when he was working on something else in the garage. That’s when it started to feel like his. Fell head-over-heels in love with that car shortly after he stuck his dick into a girl for the first time. Baby, a woman and not a thing. She had curves in all the right places and Dean wanted to know how to touch her, to make her purr.

But John never gave him anything other than that beat-up old leather jacket. Only then because there was a hole in the right-hand pocket, kept losing his keys. Gave it to him on his fourteenth birthday and said ‘here, don’t say I never gave you nothing’.

Despite John's accusations, there wasn't anything wrong with the Impala. Dean was suspicious of the gift.

“Look, son. I don’t care what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into this time. But you made the right decision. You came home. And I knew that you would, eventually,” John said. “And you being gone gave me some time to think. Now I know we’ve never really seen eye-to-eye. And I know that can be tough. But I want to change that. I don’t want you running around all over the goddamn country. We tried it your way, Dean. Why don’t we try it mine?”

Dean glanced down at the keys in his hand. Saw right through him.

John was using the Impala as an olive branch.

This was a charade. Acting lenient, even loving towards his prodigal son, if and only if Dean chose to forget. His lower lip trembled with disgust. That sick fuck. There was no repairing this. There was only living with the consequences. And if Dean was never going to get any peace, then neither was he.

“Dean?” His father watched him expectantly.

This was the moment when the angels were supposed to descend and burn out John’s eyes in some kind of righteous retribution. There was nothing more audacious than his father asking that they both play nice. But the truth was if Dean could forget, he would. It was easier to drink a bottle of whiskey and stick a needle in his arm then to admit what his nightmares were made of.

Today wasn’t any different.

He whipped the keys at the wall. They buzzed past his father’s head. That was his answer.

Dean stood, and left without another word. Retreated down a dark, narrow hallway. At the end of this hall was a white door with a ‘keep out’ sign scotch taped to the front of it. But the warning wasn’t meant for him. Dean opened the door and slammed it behind him. The louder he slammed it, the more secure he felt.

Dean's room was just as he remembered it. The old paisley wallpaper was covered, floor to ceiling, with band posters: AC/DC, The Grateful Dead, Beatles, Jimi Hendrix. At the center of it all, the grand master of his young universe, Led Zeppelin. At the back of the room was Dean’s most prized possession, the record player he’d bought with his own allowance, crate of records stacked beside it. And in the middle sat his bed. The sheets were printed with model cars, like the toys that decorated his shelves. Dean sat on the edge of the twin mattress, heard it groan under his weight. He still felt small in here, eight years old and defenseless crying into his mattress.

You ever want to be a man? John would say. Stop that crying.

Punched his pillow, tired of feeling like that helpless child over and over again. Tired of running from it too. Tired of feeling everything  and wished he could feel nothing at all.

Cheeks were wet. Dean wiped at his eyes.

He removed a small frame revolver from his jacket and placed it under his pillow.

Crying stopped. Father was right about one thing, he had grown up.

John never extended his son another olive branch, but there was a temporary ceasefire for about a week. Until his father got drunk. Then John started to repeat parts of their first conversation. That Dean was grown, that things were different now. But it always dissolved into animosity. Dean didn’t know how to set the table properly, wasn’t spending his money on the right things. Didn’t know how to handle responsibility or how to be a part of a family.  

Dean told his father to fuck off. They fought. Retreated. But John came back the next day and started the same spiel, like he was determined to get it right. But whatever he was saying, Dean didn’t want to hear it.

It went on like this for weeks and eventually Dean won enough money hustling that he thought about leaving again. Sure he was wanted in Kansas, but there were plenty of other states. And if he ran out of those, hell maybe he’d give Mexico a try.

“Look Dad,” Dean said one day. Covered in grease from head to toe, had given Baby an oil change, preparing her for a long ride. “I’m heading out at the end of the week. I can like, pay you rent or something if you want, for letting me crash. But uh, yeah, I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“Thought you were on the run from the police?” John asked.

“Yeah well, it’s been about a month. They probably got bored.” Not really. Dean was describing himself.

John shook his head. “You think you can just swing by every time you mess up? I’m not harboring a fugitive in my home. You’re my _son_ , not some goddamn low-life.”

Dean laughed. “No, Dad. I’m the _lowest_ of the low-lives. But hey, at least I’m still handsome.” He smiled tragically.

“Then why even _bother_ coming back?” Father’s voice snapped at him like a rubber band, made Dean wince. “Because once again you can’t handle being an adult. You try to lie and cheat your way through life, Dean. How long do you think you can keep that up before you really do land yourself in prison?”

“Then why even _let_ me come back if you think I’m such a fuck up?” Dean challenged. “You don’t know shit about me. I had a job just before this okay, a really good job. An _important_ job. I didn’t _want_ to come back!” Reached for the amulet around his neck. Stroked the Buddha-like face with his thumb.

His father noticed the gesture. “Where’d you get that?”

Dean had bought a thin black cord to replace the binding Sam’d laced the charm through. Wore it on his chest proudly, not tucked under his shirt. “Kansas,” Dean answered.

“Never known you to wear jewelry." Passive aggressive edge to show he disapproved. No surprise. “From a girl of yours or something?”

“Yeah,” Dean said it without even thinking. Felt a pleasurable shiver at the mistake.

“You going back to Kansas for her?”

“I’m not going _back_ to Kansas.”

John grunted, looked disappointed. Could forgive his son for all the stealing and the drugs if only it ended in romance. Dean’s lack of interest in settling down, starting a family. Another point of contention. “It’s because you don’t really know what responsibility is,” his father concluded with a heavy sigh.

He was about to start up again. Dean could see the warning signs. Rolled his eyes and entered the house, tried to put some distance between him and his father. But this time John stood up and followed him, wanted to make sure he heard every last fucking word.

“You’re selfish, Dean. You only think about what’s good for you. You’ve never _had_ to sacrifice for a family, or even for a woman. You don’t know what that’s _like_.”

Cornered. Nowhere else to go. Turned on his heel and spat. “Fuck you. Fuck you, why can’t you just die and leave me alone already!”

“ _What_ did you just say?” Grabbed at him. Two hands like claws. Hooked onto his shoulder and shook.  “I am still your father, boy. You will _not_ talk back to me, do you understand?”

Hadn’t touched his father since he came back. Not once. Not even to hug. Sudden contact, a shock to his system. Not hands on his shoulders but arms wrapped around him, smothering him, rubbing and touching. Dean panicked and some hidden instinct drove his fist below the old man's belt.

John gasped. Bulging eyes, some sick crushing sound, like an insect. Fell to his knees, fighting for air. Gasped one more time, vomited, fainted, and collapsed in his own sick.

Dean was frozen to the spot, watched everything unfold like a movie. “Dad?” he asked, tiny and small like a child. Always like a child. John didn’t respond, he was completely still.

“Dad?” Dean asked again. Dropped to his knees and shook his father’s body, thumbed the vomit out of his mouth. “Dad? DAD?!” There was no response and Dean felt in his gut that something had gone terribly wrong. Leapt to his feet, shaking, reached for the phone and dialed 911.

What’s the state of your emergency?

He didn’t mean what he'd said.

Dean was forced to wait in a white room with old chairs and speckled tiles inside BroMenn Medical Center.  He sat there for seven hours while people were processed one by one. A woman with an ear ache, a child with the flu, a man finishing a routine physical. In and out. Patched up. Piece of paper with a signature. Good as new. While he balanced on the edge of an abyss.

Dean replayed the scene over and over again in his head. Defended himself, didn’t even hit that hard. So why did he feel this guilty.

Increasingly agitated. Hated not doing anything. Would visit the vending machine like clockwork, every twenty minutes, eat something filled with chocolate and fat and empty calories. When he was done, got up. Bought another. Somehow the routine was soothing. Eating felt like an accomplishment.

Four hours of this and the last candy bar got stuck in the machine. No big deal. Waste of a dollar fifty. And he wasn’t even hungry. But Dean bashed his fists against that machine like it had personally insulted him. Hospital staff stared as he kicked and screamed. They knew why he was there. Poor kid, they all thought. Poor kid.

Dean kicked the machine and finally the candy bar fell to the bottom, rattled emptily like him.

Fuck it, he didn’t want it anymore.

Two-thirty in the morning and a doctor finally emerged from the belly of the hospital. A short, black woman with dark eyes. She looked right at him, fixed him with a stern gaze and called his name with a thick, southern twang. Dean shot to his feet, shaking slightly from anticipation and maybe all that goddamn sugar.

“Can I see him? Where is he? What the hell happened?”

The id pinned on her chest read Doctor Missouri Moseley. She saw Dean for what he was: a wreck, and her stern face softened. “You’re gonna want to sit down for this.”

Dean hesitated, had been sitting for hours. But remembered the distinct smell of vomit, his father’s prostrate form. Sat down immediately.

Doctor Moseley took a seat beside him and folded her hands delicately in her lap. “Your father’s a fighter, Dean. I’ll give him that. Bought as stubborn as they come. Probably the only thing that’s saved him so far. Another man at his age, at this stage, would have already been gone.” She took a deep, somber breath. “I’m sorry baby, but your father has prostate cancer and it’s bad. Stage four. That means it’s already spread to other parts of his body. That blow he took to his lower abdomen caused some bleeding-we got that under control. But it’s mostly the pain that wiped him out.” She shook her head in disbelief. “His insides are all twisted up. I’ve never seen a case that’s gone untreated for so long.”

Seven hours in a hospital was enough time to think up a prognosis that bad. “Oh my god,” Dean shuddered, buried his face in his hands. All he could see was his fist, his father’s vomit, his mother’s grave. “This is all my fault.”

Doctor Moseley tilted her head. “Now how you reckon that?” She challenged. “Your father’s still young. He should be healthy, happy, living a long good life. I don’t believe for a second he didn’t know something was wrong with him. So I called around, looked up his record, and sure enough he knew. See here, diagnosed with the early stages.”

Showed him his father’s record, dated four years ago.

“If he didn’t do nothing about it, then your father’s been walking around letting that thing grow inside him and now it’s dug itself in too deep, it’s not gonna let go. We can help stop the cancer’s spread. But not much more than that.”

“What are you telling me?” Dean growled. “That’s there’s nothing you can do? What the _hell_ kind of doctor are you?” Desperate, angry, lashing out in every direction.

“Well I’m no voodoo priest, if that’s what you’re after.” Missouri frowned. “I got no magic spells for you Dean, just cold hard facts. I can tell you all sorts of recovery stories if you’re looking for a miracle, but my prognosis is your father only has a few months.”

Sank low in his seat, covered his face. Heard his father’s voice telling him not to cry. Dean wanted to shout, to scream. Wanted to punch that fucking vending machine over and over again until it gave him some kind of answer.

“Can I…at least, see him?” he finally asked.

Doctor Moseley nodded. “It’s late but I’ll make an exception since your father’s awake. He was _supposed_ to be getting some rest. Instead he’s just been giving us grief.”

Dean almost smiled. Yeah, that sounded like John.

 

Dean was led to the third floor, into a private room where John Winchester lay on a crisp white bed plugged full of tubes and needles. Saw his father for the first time as something small and fragile. Gray hair, paper skin. The memory of him as strong, indomitable, loomed and wavered.

“Dad.” Dean went to his father’s side, never thought once about whether he deserved it.

John’s red-rimmed eyes flickered towards his son, then away. Voice was hoarse, lips chapped. “Thought I told them not to let you in.”

Dean faltered at the rebuke. “I was worried about you,” he insisted. “I didn’t know what happened.”

“Well, I’m guessing you know now.” John exhaled, impatient.

Dean leaned on the railing of the bed. Gripped it so tight his knuckles went white. “Yeah I do. How long have you known?”

“Long enough,” John grunted, wouldn’t even meet his gaze.

“And you didn’t do anything about it? You couldn’t even…” Glanced behind them. Lowered his voice in sudden deference. “ _Fucking_ tell me?”

“Watch your language,” his father chastised. Looked like he was going to fade into nothing right there. “I don’t tell you a lot of things Dean. And it’s for your own good.”

“But you’re _dying_ , John.” Nearly choked on the word. “First mom and now….”

“Dean.” His dad cut him off. Didn’t want to broach the subject, even now.

Adjusted the blanket over his lap, smoothed the wrinkles. Some habits from the military too deeply ingrained.“You didn’t let me finish,” John said after a moment. “We were having a discussion before, Dean. And then….this.” Waved his hand. Needle inserted into the top of his hand shimmered. Morphine Drip.

Dean thought back to the escalation. Was John really going to lie there and finish berating him. “Dad, I don’t think-“

“Sit down,” John commanded. “This is serious, Dean.”

“I’m tired of sitting,” he protested weakly. But his father gave him a hard look. He sat.

“What I meant before…” John started, thoughtful. “When I said you didn’t know responsibility. I _meant_ that, you’ve never had a big family. We fell away from everyone after your mom. I know that. That was my fault, really, I should have-" John started coughing. Dean jumped to his feet but the fit subsided and John brushed off his concern. Dean sat back down.

“But it’s not, Dean, it’s not as small as you think.”

Was it the morphine? His father wasn’t making any sense. But he knew John had been stumbling along for weeks with something on the tip of his tongue. Locked down inside BroMenn Medical there was no escaping it now.

“What is?”

“Our family. There’s one more thing I never told you, Dean. You have another sibling. A brother.”

Dean waited for more, some sort of punchline to follow the joke. Laughed anyway at the absurdity of the statement. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Exactly what I said. You remember your mother was sick. She mistook her pregnancy symptoms for being a part of that disease. She didn’t show, some women don’t. We didn’t know until she got worse. I took her to the hospital, was told she needed to go to surgery. I didn’t find out until later it was an emergency c-section.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t remember any of that-I would have remembered that.”

“I never let you see him,” John confessed. “Honest-to-god I didn’t think he’d make it. But he did,” John smiled proudly. “My boy. Must be those Winchester genes. Can be a blessing you know. And a curse.” ECG monitor beeped quietly, measured which it was.

“Why are you telling me this?” Dean asked, still didn’t believe a word of it.

“Because I made a mistake, separating you two. I thought…well, I thought I was trying to protect him. You’ve got to understand, Dean. When your mother died, it was like the sun went out. All I saw was black. And I didn’t know how I was going to protect two boys on my own.”

“So why not let someone else do it?” Dean said, cynical.

“He had a better chance at happiness with someone else.” John insisted. “He deserved that.”

Dean leaned forward in his chair. “What about me?” he asked his father. “What did I deserve?”

Because Dean knew exactly what he meant. John knew he was a monster, and he felt guilty enough about it to save at least one of them. That’s why he was laying in the hospital bed, letting himself die. Thought it was what he deserved.

“ _You_ deserved a brother,” John concluded. “I took that away from you Dean, and I’m sorry.”

Dean’s face curdled in disgust. Far as he was concerned that kid got to live the good life while his fell apart. Fuck him. “So I have a brother,” he shrugged. “Is that supposed to mean something to me? You keep acting like family’s this big thing that ties everybody together. But _you_ gave up your own son. And now he’s probably wearing Abercrombie and living in the suburbs. Good for him. What do I care?”

John said nothing, too tired to disagree. All of the stumbling to get to this point and his son only disappointed him again.

“It’s late,” Dean sighed, massaged his temples. “Do you want me to stay?”

John laid his head back, closed his eyes. “No. You shouldn’t have stayed to begin with.”

Dean stood to leave, drained of everything. Then John called out one more thing.

“He’s back in Kansas. At Douglas County Corrections. If you ever change your mind.”

Dean froze. Hairs on the back of his neck, like a ghost passed through him. Turned back to his father slowly. “What did you say?”

“It was supposed to be a closed adoption but I hired someone a long time ago to keep tabs on him. Still my son, after all. If he was with that family, I wouldn’t bring this up either, Dean. But I couldn’t protect him like I thought I could. Either of you.” John looked at him earnestly. “He lost his foster parents. And soon-well, I think you’ll need each other.”

Dean stared out into the hall, a lone nurse passing their room. Familiar story. Mind jumped in every direction at once. “What’s his name?” Dean asked softly. Touched the amulet around his neck again.

John smiled, proud. “Your mother named him after her grandfather. Sam. Sam Winchester.”

“And the family,” Dean urged. “Who were they?”

John grunted, shifted in the bed. “Father was a financial advisor, mother a retired legal secretary. Wesson, I think they were. Why?”

Dean laughed. Started out a chuckle of disbelief and then it built into something more grand. Tilted his head back and shook. He laughed at the absurdity of meeting his own brother in a tiny jail cell in Douglas County. He laughed at the tragedy of their separation, all the pain and loss on either side of them. And then he laughed because that’s just what Winchesters do in the face of awful things.

But John couldn’t understand it. Thought his son had finally gone mad. “…Dean?”

Quieted after a few moments, wiped a hand across his face. ”You know,” Dean said. “I think I’m gonna get that girl back from Kansas after all.”


	11. Chapter 11

Sam descended the steps of the Douglas County District Court, squinting into the midday sun. Sun beat down. Loosened the tie about his neck and unbuttoned the top collar of his shirt, two sizes too big. A strong breeze swept through, blew into the cuffs of his dress shirt and inflated him like a balloon.

Sam laughed, carefree. It was his first taste of freedom.

“Congratulations, Sam.” His lawyer said gently, sun shining behind her bright red hair like a halo. “You can finally move on, start putting this all behind you.”

Sam thought he might burst. The grin on his face was too big, muscles that hadn't been used in years, stretched and pulled. He thought about what the future held five minutes, even five hours from now. No more dingy uniform, no more dark cell, no more isolation, no more slop on a plastic tray, no more threats, no more fights. No more. Sam breathed in deep, shaky, held the breath in like it might be his last, and he was okay with that.

“Thank you,” Sam whispered, fought back a swell of emotion. He didn't want to waste this beautiful day with tears. He wanted to remember every last detail. The color of green in the trees, the gold buttons on his lawyer's blouse, the plaid patterned tie around his neck and the phrase in Latin on the side of the courthouse, bright gold letters in relief that said ' _We are slaves of the law in order that we may be able to be free._ ’ Burned the moment into his mind.

These last few weeks during his trial had sped by. The Fire-Medical Investigator had taken the stand, was interviewed by the prosecutor and sharply cross-examined by Anna. Then his lawyer brought in their own examiner and debunked all of the things the Investigator had assumed were facts. And when Sam was on the stand, all eyes were on him as he explained what had happened. Anna drew out the emotional impacts of his loss, made sure everyone knew how long he had been stuck in Douglas County waiting for his moment.

And now it was here, two years of waiting for a jury to name him “not guilty”. It was surreal. Expected trumpets to sound or a band to start to playing, something to recognize the significance of the event. But the only fanfare was the sound of birds calling and the low hum of cars driving by. Extraordinarily normal.

“There’s someone else here to see you,” Anna said, pulled Sam from his thoughts.

He saw Rachel, his social worker, ascending the steps. Her blonde hair was pulled back. She wore a tight smile. “Hello, Sam. I just heard the good news. Congratulations. How are you feeling?”

Sam opened his mouth, had a million things buzzing through his veins but there wasn't a single word for any of it. He laughed, shook his head. “I don’t-good, I guess. Yeah. I feel good.”

She nodded reluctantly. “That’s good. I have news for you as well. Is now…a good time?”

Rachel and Anna exchanged glances.

Sam's stomach tightened. “They said no didn’t they?” he guessed.

Rachel sighed, professionally apologetic. “We were able to find your birth parents, Sam. Your mother passed away shortly after you were born but we talked with your father. He lives out of state, but he denied our request to have you contact him. Unfortunately, that means I can't release your original birth certificate. Nor can I share any more information with you about your birth parents.”

Sam laughed bitterly. Of course. There had been enough miracles for one day. He had come not to expect too much out of the universe.

“However,” Rachel continued to explain. “Your records will not be sealed permanently. Once you turn eighteen, Sam, you'll have access to them.”

What was the point of that, Sam thought, the message was already loud and clear. He nodded absently.

“Rachel can drive you back to the Juvenile Detention Center,” Anna said. This was the end of her business with him. Was wrapping things up, nice and clean, passing him along to someone else. “You can pick up your belongings. She already has arrangements for you to stay somewhere tonight.”

“Yeah, great.” Sam sighed.

“You don’t have anything to be scared of,” Rachel assured him. Tried to sound light, optimistic. “I hear you’re a good student. You still have a very bright future ahead of you, Sam.”

But Sam could already see himself being passed from one systematic mess to another. Transferred. Processed. He wasn’t trying to be ungrateful for everything Anna and Rachel had done, but Sam didn’t want to be brought to another place where they crowded warm bodies, kids society didn’t know what to do with. His skin itched. Sam wanted a clean slate. Wanted to run down the road until his chest burned, until he couldn’t go any further. And that’s where he would start over. There. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.

The court house opened up again and county prosecutors descended the steps beside them. The lawyers exchanged nods, the adversarial system, but they said nothing to Sam. They still thought they were right, despite the jury’s verdict. They crossed the parking lot and got into a Mercedes, drove off, their heads held high. No reason to apologize for ruining years of his life.

Sam watched them go, noticed another car sitting in the lot. Not a Mercedes but a Chevy, black, strip of bright chrome cutting across the middle. He had seen it a few times over the past days, always parked in the same spot. Could never make out who was in the driver’s side smoking like a chimney, but today they were much closer. Saw a beat up leather jacket with the lapels up, pair of reflective sunglasses, stubble, short brown hair, a familiar profile.

Stomach tied itself into knots with the possibilities.

“Sam?” Sam looked up at Rachel, who had asked him a question. “Are you ready to go?”

Sam blinked furiously, his mind in a haze. “Can I um-Can I just…have a minute?”

Rachel and Anna exchanged sympathetic glances and nodded.

Sam thanked them, turned right onto the sidewalk and slowly approached the parked car. Hands in his pockets, glancing to his left every so often, tried to be as nonchalant as possible in case he was wrong. Walked until he was directly across from the passenger side door, twenty feet away. The window was down. No pretense now just staring at the person inside the car, a newspaper lifted obscuring part of their face. But it looked like…it _really_ looked like….

Dean Winchester lowered the newspaper and pushed up his shades. Had caught Sam staring, flashed him a bright smile. “Hey kiddo.”

Sam jumped in surprise, flustered, secretly thrilled. He hardly recognized Dean outside of his prison uniform, but there was something about him-the leather jacket, his classic car and mirrored shades-somehow it all made sense. Who else would it be?

“C’mere,” Dean said, motioned him over.

Sam glanced back at Rachel and Anna who were engaged in an intense conversation. Probably about him.

He approached the car tentatively and leaned in through the open passenger window. “Dean?” Sam asked. Just to make certain, just to be sure his eyes weren't playing cruel tricks.

“Yours truly,” Dean confirmed. “Miss me?”

Opened his mouth but choked on his words again. “I-I….yes. I mean!”

Dean laughed. Sam didn't even care if he was laughing at him. “Hey look at you, all dressed up. Lookin’ sharp Sammy.”

Sam wrinkled his nose at the pet name but was too dazed to correct him. Ran a hand over his loosened tie and wrinkled shirt. “It’s the uh, only time they let you dress like a human,” Sam explained. “When they’re deciding your fate.” Looked down at himself: polished shoes, ironed pants, small belt looped around his waist to keep them from slipping. Dressed up for some important event, his own release. “I’m innocent,” Sam whispered. Felt so good to say it. Finally. “I’m free.”

They shared congratulatory smiles. Sam felt so happy his chest hurt.

“Didn’t need twelve assholes to tell me what I already knew,” Dean concluded, started to fold the newspaper into quarters.

“....Dean. What are you doing here?” Sam finally asked.

“Dunno. Just passing through I guess. Saw this in the paper. It didn’t even make the front page.”

Dean handed the Lawrence Journal-World to him. There was a small paragraph on the sixth page about Sam. It had been written before the verdict was rendered, made him sound like he was a delinquent, like he was guilty for sure. Sam smirked.

“Now look at what _did_ make the front page.”

Dean stared resolutely out the window as Sam unfolded the paper and turned to the front page. The headline read DOUGLAS COUNTY DRUG SCANDAL REVEALED. The first sentence mentioned evidence from an unknown source leading to an arrest. He recognized a picture of the warden being led out in cuffs.

“The whole place has been turned upside down,” Sam confirmed. “Drugs? Or something. All a part of that kid that died. I heard they were gonna shut the whole place down, transfer everybody to Wyandotte County. I was afraid it was going to interrupt _my_ trial, somehow.”

Dean turned to him, looked concerned but said nothing.

“Alistair disappeared,” Sam continued. “Probably to save his own skin. And then all of a sudden you were gone too. I thought….”

“Thought I was tied up in it too?”

Sam ducked his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Well I wasn't,” Dean said, defensive. “Things got…complicated, Sam. But I wouldn’t’ve left you in the lurch if I’d had a choice. Know that.”

Sam made a big show of not caring. “Yeah. I mean, whatever. You don’t owe me an explanation. Like, I was just a part of your job and now you don't work there anymore so...that's it."

“Is it?” Dean challenged.

Sam didn't know what to say to that, stared at Dean stupidly before quickly glancing behind himself again. Anna and Rachel were watching him closely now, fixated on Sam leaning into a car neither recognized. Like an illustration from some pamphlet on Stranger Danger.

That’s when Sam leaned through the open window, grabbed the car handle from inside and opened the door. He sat inside the black Chevy and inhaled the interior, instantly overwhelmed with the smell of vinyl, stale food, cigarettes, and Dean’s unmistakable cologne. Felt young, impossibly young. And stupid. God, this was so stupid.

“Take me with you,” Sam demanded. Wanted to sound confidant, but just stuttered like an idiot instead. “I-I won’t be a burden, I promise. I can get work wherever we go, like maybe get a permit or find something under the table. O-or I can like do your laundry or something. I’ll earn my keep, honest.”

Dean studied him curiously. It was obvious he was trying hard not to laugh. “You want to do my laundry?”

“I’m clean!” Sam insisted. “And I’m quiet. You won’t even know I’m there!” Dean was starting to chuckle and Sam felt desperate. Bit his lower lip, bared his soul. “ _Please_ , Dean? I know I’m asking a lot but like, just a place to stay for a couple of weeks. Until I get on my feet. Then you never have to see me again.”

The humor had slipped out of Dean’s face. Watched him now with a careful, guarded expression.

Sam sighed, looked out the window. Anna and Rachel struggled over whether or not to rescue him from the car. “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he admitted. “And I don’t…I don’t want to go with _them_.”

“What happened to finding your family?”

Sam laughed, short and blunt. “Apparently my father wants nothing to do with me.”

Didn't see Dean’s frown, the way his knuckles tightened over the wheel. “Sounds like an asshole,” he said quietly.

“Yeah well, you know what? Screw them.” Sam leaned his head against the Impala’s vinyl seats, forced a smile for Dean. “It’s their loss. I’m….I’m gonna make it work. I’ll make it to Stanford. And they’ll be sorry they missed out on me.” Laughed, tears brimming in the corner of his eyes.

The Impala roared to life beneath him. Sam jumped in his seat, startled. Looked to Dean who had just started the engine.

“Then let’s go,” Dean concluded. Watched as Anna and Rachel started to scuffle towards them; high heels and pantyhose. “But it’s gotta be now, Sam. Right now. I can’t go back to Youth Services and pick up any of your things. I just can't. When I turn this car around I’m not coming back, and it’s up to you whether or not you’re in it.” Stared out the window, his ultimatum set.

Sam's heart pounded in his chest, eyes wide, incredulous. Couldn’t believe his own ears, couldn’t believe this moment was real. Glanced out the windshield again, Anna and Rachel closing in. Clock ticking away, Sam touched his chest. There was a photo of his family tucked into his breast pocket. He turned to look at Dean, saw his amulet draped boldly across Dean’s chest.

“Yes,” Sam said. “I’m ready. To go. Right now.”

Dean’s expression melted. Hard to pin it, exactly, but it looked a little like relief. “Then say goodbye to your friends. I think they’re worried about you.”

Shifted the Impala into gear, car jerked forward. They started to pull out of the lot and as they passed his lawyer and his social worker Sam stuck his head out the window and shouted: “Fuck you Douglas County!”

Drove out of the lot, over the curb and straight into traffic. The car bounced, engine revved, and they both laughed as the wind whipped through their hair. Sam inhaled deeply. Couldn’t remember feeling more alive.

They drove for an hour not saying much, the radio on high. Sam was mesmerized as the flatlands of Kansas rolled by and blended seamlessly into the long stretches of farms and trees edging the highways of Missouri. The scenery was sparse, towns came and went, but Sam’s eyes were still locked on the horizon. He was looking towards the future, excited for what was to come. While Dean kept glancing in the rear-view mirror, looking out for something that might sneak up from their past.

Sam realized he knew absolutely nothing about Dean. At least not as much as you should before hopping in a car with someone and going across the country. The soul-searching days of ‘On the Road’ had been replaced with slash thrillers like Hush and The Hitcher. There was nothing romantic about finding your way anymore, too much dirt and danger. But Sam hadn't thought of that, had just jumped in the car like he belonged. There was nothing familiar about Dean's car, about the crumpled cigarette pack at his feet, or the old cheeseburger wrappers poking out from under the seats. It was Dean, himself, that put Sam at ease.

At ease, but still wanted to know what he had signed up for. “Where are we going?” Sam finally asked.

Dean ripped his eyes from the rear-view mirror. Probably wondering why it had taken him an hour to come up with that. “North-east,” Dean answered, vague. “Bought another half hour’n then we’ll get a room for the night.”

“A room?”

“Yeah, motel room,” Dean clarified. “Something cheap. Sorry, fresh out of Hilton’s in this part of the country.”

Sam smiled, laid his head against the window. His eyelids were getting heavy. “Anything’s gonna feel like the Hilton after that place.” Could feel Dean’s gaze on him but he kept watching the trees go by, relaxed, content. “What happens after we get a room?” 

“We go to sleep.”

“And after that?”

“We wake up.”

“…and after that?”

Dean hesitated. “I don’t know. I’m not really sure. Haven’t thought it out that far. It depends, I guess.”

“On what?”

“...On you,” Dean said. “We can figure out what we want to do. After.”

Sam quickly blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “After?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders. Easy to see he was getting irritated, like Sam was trying to provoke him by asking all these questions. Answered him in a frustrated rush. “Yeah, you know. _After_. After you eat, and shower, and rest up for a bit. You haven’t been out in the world for two years Sam, it might take some adjusting!”

“Oh.” 

Ozzy Ozbourne’s _Mama I’m Coming Home_ finished playing before Dean reached over and turned off the radio. “You hungry?” he asked. An apology.

Sam placed a hand over his stomach, felt it rumble. “Yeah.”

Dean grinned. “First meal out of prison. What do you want? You name it, you got it. C’mon don’t be shy.”

Sam considered the offer. “I’ll pay you back,” he promised.

Dean scoffed. “Would you quit it? I’m doing this for _you_ , Sam. Okay? None of this paying me back, earning your keep bullshit. Just accept some _fucking kindness_ for once.”

Sam laughed softly and rolled his eyes towards the sky. It was starting to get dark. “Yeah, okay Dean. I’ll accept your fucking kindness.” They sat together in silence as Sam thought, categorizing every meal he’d ever had and which one he missed the most. “A salad,” he concluded. “Olive Garden has that, like never ending salad and breadstick combo. I know the lettuce is practically drowning in their dressing but I’ve been dreaming about it for like a year now. Not that in particular but you know, a salad. Something fresh. Something that crunches and isn't pre-processed.”

“…a salad.”

“Yeah.”

Dean looked like he was offended. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been eating shit for two years, slop on a plate, I don’t even know what it was half the time, and you want a salad? Lettuce and vegetables? Rabbit food? Not pizza, or ice cream, or even popcorn like a normal kid. _Salad_?”

Sam scoffed. “You _asked_ me what I wanted.”

“Yeah because I thought you would list off twenty kinds of junk food. Salty, sweet-“

“Then don’t _ask_ me if you don’t want to-“

“No,” Dean interrupted. “I’ll _get_ you a salad. But I’m getting _myself_ a pizza. And ice cream. And popcorn. Cause hell if you’re not gonna celebrate Sam, I am!”

“You’re just gonna get sick, eating all of that at once.” Sam smiled, could see Dean was trying to be considerate, if not frustratingly stubborn.

“Yeah well then, I guess you better help me.”

About one Led Zeppelin tape later Sam and Dean pulled into the Trails End Motel in Clarence, Missouri. They stood inside the office waiting for an old man who was losing the hair on his head, but gaining it between his ears and nose, to help them. They booked a room with two fulls and Sam noticed Dean paid with a credit card that wasn't his (Hector Aframian? Yeah okay). Dean handed him the spare key, said he would be right back and went to unload the car.

Sam turned to his left and followed the numbers on the door until they matched the cheap, plastic key ring in his hand. He entered the room and it was like stepping back in time: wood paneling on the walls and shag rugs, bright paisley print flowers on the comforters and sea foam green tiles in the bathroom. Sam grimaced but threw himself on the nearest bed anyways, bounced on the stiff mattress. It felt like butter to him. He sighed, eyelids fluttering shut.

A moment later and the door opened, Dean entering with two duffel bags swung over his shoulder. Smiled down at him. “Hey there sleeping beauty, this is yours.” Second duffel bag landed next to his head.

“Mine?” Sam parroted.

“Yeah. Yours. Unless you want to keep wearing those duds of yours. Looks all professional and shit I’m sure but probably not comfy to sleep in.”

Sam sat up, pulled the bag onto his lap and found several pairs of shirts and worn jeans inside. Picked out a black t-shirt with a reaper printed on it, Blue Oyster Cult written on top. It smelled like Dean, unmistakably, but it was a size or two smaller than what he was wearing now. Would fit Sam perfectly, and he guessed that was the point. Looked up at Dean, who was busy unpacking his things with military efficiency.

“You had…an extra bag of clothes?” Sam fished.

“Just some old stuff,” Dean muttered without meeting his eyes. “Not a big deal.” Threw his bag on the floor, swung the room key around his index finger. “Kay, off to fetch your friggin’ salad now. Feel free to wash up, change, jump up on the bed, whatever. But don’t break anything. And don’t go _anywhere_ until I get back, alright?”

“Do you have a toothbrush or something I could borrow?”

Dean didn’t pause, didn’t look back at him, just said “check the bag” and left. Heard the engine of the Impala roar and pull away seconds later.

So Sam checked the bag. Sure enough, beneath the clothes there was a plastic baggy that contained a new brush, a new bottle of toothpaste, a bar of soap, and various other toiletries. Sam stared at it all for a full minute. He thought back to his trial where the county prosecutor kept repeating this word, one that meant you had planned your crime from the start: _premeditation_. A cold shiver rolled up his spine. Thought again about what he was doing, trusting Dean.

Jumping in the car had been spontaneous and he thought Dean had been humoring him by letting him ride along. But this bag, the toothbrush, they were no coincidence. Dean had something planned, something involving him. Had thought of Sam, packed this bag and hunted him down outside the courtroom and waited.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, palms sweating, stomach curled with heat. Dean had come back for him, solely for him.

He laughed suddenly, nervous and stupid inside the small room. He shouldn't like that idea as much as he did. Too many movies about kidnappers and murderers to trust someone he hardly knew. But it wasn't like that. He didn't know much about Dean but he knew the things that mattered, like Dean had been there for him at one of his darkest moments. That Dean kept showing up over and over again, even though he didn't have to. 

Dean had warned Sam not to deify him, turn him into something he wasn't. But it was too late. Sam was already infatuated.

It wouldn't have taken much to get him in that car.

Sam smiled at himself, shook his head. Was acting like some star-struck, lovesick teenager. But he just couldn't help it.

Grabbed the bag of toiletries and went to the bathroom to clean up. Took off his clothes, finally removed the tie, the shirt, and the slim pants the county had loaned him to look presentable. Naked. Turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature. Stepped inside and anxiously washed Douglas County off his skin. Sighed, loud and low as his whole body relaxed. Turned up the temperature, his skin turning pink from the heat but Sam didn’t care. Felt his dick stiffen, despite the hot water. Unwrapped a bar of soap and lathered his skin. Inhaled the scent, fresh and sweet and grabbed his dick as the lather ran down his body. Shut his eyes, relaxed even more as he slowly stroked himself.

This was it. This was freedom. The freedom to travel with a boy in a car, to jerk off in some anonymous motel shower, or to eat salad for dinner. This was the beginning of his new life. Locked up for so long, the world felt immense. There were no more limits. Like Sam could have anything he wanted, if only he reached out and took it.

Sam shuddered, imagined reaching out and kissing Dean again like he had in Douglas County. Soft lips, Dean’s cologne and each other’s blood in their mouths. They belonged to each other in that second, frighteningly intimate. But like a drug he wanted more, and more, andmoreandmore until-Sam gasped, orgasmed. Come and lather swirling at his feet, down the drain. 

Sam emerged from the bathroom with a paisley printed towel wrapped around his waist. Still no Dean so he picked out a shirt to wear from the bag. Choose a worn black t-shirt with a faded Van Halen logo. Inhaled the scent, but it wasn’t quite Dean. Perfume, something feminine, draped it over his head anyways. It fit well, except for a strip of his stomach that showed every time he raised his arms. Then Sam put on a worn pair of jeans, hole in the right knee but that didn’t matter. No underwear except for the old pair from Douglas County which he refused to wear. Slipped the denim over his legs, buttoned, and adjusted his crotch.

He threw his other clothes in the trash, never wanted to see them again.

Ten minutes later and Dean was back with several plastic bags draped over his arms and a pizza box balanced between his hand and chin. Threw the room key on the table and plopped the pizza box on Sam’s bed.

“Fucking small-ass town, everything closes after five,” Dean muttered. He dug into the bag and removed a plastic cup with a curved top and tossed it to Sam. “Not Olive Garden, but I figure salad’s a salad.”

Sam caught it, studied the pieces jammed into his cup: lettuce, cabbage, tomatoes, bits of onion, chicken, and green pepper. Noticed the lid had a packet of dressing tucked inside, one of those fast food shake-and-eat salads. “This is perfect,” he smiled. “Thank you.”

Dean grunted in reply, removed a bag of popcorn and two small tubs of Ben & Jerry’s and placed them on the pizza box. He raised his brow at Sam, like a challenge.

“You’re not gonna finish that ice cream before it melts,” Sam warned.

“Then you should help me.”

Sam shook his head. “Already told you, I don't want any.” Sam poured the dressing on his dinner, closed the plastic lid back on the cup and shook. He ignored Dean with his pizza and his junk food, peeled back the plastic top of his cup and ripped open a packet of utensils, digging into his salad. Brought the first bite to his mouth and closed his eyes. It had been two years since he’d had anything this fresh, anything that actually crunched. Surprised himself with a tiny moan.

“Easy to please, aren’t you Sammy?” Dean was staring at him.

Sam turned away, embarrassed. “When did you decide you could start calling me Sammy, anyways?” he accused. “Sammy is a chubby eight-year-old. And I’m not a kid either. I’m _fifteen_ , almost sixteen.”

“Woooooow,”Dean mocked. “Fifteen? I guess that makes you old enough to do. Um. Let me think about it. Oh yeah. _Jackshit_.”

“Oh my god,” Sam groaned. 

Dean grinned, opened up a tub of ice cream and swallowed a spoonful. Scooped up another chunk and dangled it front of his face. Sammy, that chubby eight-year old. Some ornery kid that Dean had to feed. 

Sam turned his head, pushed Dean’s hand away. “You’re _embarrassing_ yourself.”

It was insult to injury when he started to pretend the spoon was a choo choo and angled it towards his face. “C’mon, Sam. Eat the ice cream. One spoonful. Eat. The friggin’. Ice Cream.”

“ _Fine_!” Sam groaned. Squinted his eyes dubiously at Dean and then opened his mouth, let Dean feed him. Wrapped his lips around the cold spoon and swallowed. Like fucking heaven slid down his throat. “Jesus,” he moaned.

Dean grinned triumphantly. 

Sam looked down at his salad container reluctantly. Well, it was almost done anyways. “You don’t...have to spoon feed it to me, _do you_?”

Dean smirked, tossed Sam his own tub and spoon. “Have at it,” he said.

Sam ate the ice cream, and Dean leaned back on the bed, splayed out, remote in hand. He turned to Twilight Zone reruns on the cheap tv across the room. Dean opened the pizza box, grabbed a slice and switched back and forth between shoveling hot cheese and cold cream into his mouth. Sam wrinkled his nose. He’d been brought up eating a proper supper at the family table every night, but thirty minutes later he was doing the same thing, felt a kind of thrill at the rebellion of it, even if his stomach complained.

After the pizza was gone and the ice cream had (mostly) not gone to waste, Sam and Dean hibernated, digesting their supper through their fourth episode of Twilight Zone. Sam rested his head on a pillow, could feel the heat of Dean's thigh. Felt his eyelids getting heavy again as Dean gingerly ran his fingers through Sam’s hair.

“S'okay?” Dean asked between commercial breaks.

Sam hummed in affirmation, too tired to reply. All his nights in Douglas County and he couldn't have dreamed of anything as calm and satisfying as this.

“I meant the shirt,” Dean chuckled, rubbed Sam's back and plucked at the fabric. “Good choice, one of my favorites.”

Sam rolled onto his back and smiled up at Dean. The shirt in question rode up on his chest, exposed his stomach. “I like it, thanks. But…it kind of smells like a girl though?”

“It does?” And without any warning Dean leaned forward, pulled his shirt up and inhaled.

Sam turned red. 

“Bella,” Dean concluded. “My ex. You smell like my ex-girlfriend, Sammy." Dean laughed. "Sorry, I forgot she'd rolled in it before she left.”

Sam straightened the shirt and brushed his hair out of his face. The television droned on, maybe another ten minutes while Sam sat there, trying not to think too much about how he smelled like a girl that Dean had fucked. Then, around the fifth episode, Sam laid his head on Dean's chest, impulsive. Yawned, made it seem like he was tired even though his body was totally aware, hyper sensitive to every breath Dean took. 

Dean didn't seem to mind, made room for Sam, shifted under his weight and kept watching television. A few minutes went by and his hand was tangled in Sam's hair again.

"Sam?" Dean asked, another commercial break.

"Yeah?" Swallowed his heart back down into his chest.

“Are you still hungry? Cause I bought two bags of popcorn that need to be eaten.”

Sam clutched his stomach and groaned.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean woke up before dawn, bladder full and aching. Sat up in his cheap motel bed, threw back the comforter and rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes. Stumbled to the bathroom. Took a leak. Sighed at the relief.  He flipped off the bathroom light when he was done and edged his way back to the bed, peering at Sam’s side of the room. Some instinct in him needed to be reassured. But as Dean stared into the dark he noticed the covers on Sam’s bed were pulled back. It was empty.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice cracked. He ran his hands over the blankets, over the sheets, but they weren't hiding a fifteen-year-old boy. Just like that, Dean wasn’t tired anymore. “Sam!” he called out again, louder this time, panic pumping through his veins.

Spun around, eyes searching the dark. Sam’s bag was still by his bed, shoes neatly tucked underneath it. Wouldn’t have left without these things would he? Dean’s nostrils flared. Jumped to the worst conclusion, bloodied images of a young body discarded by the side of the road, like a shock to his system. Dean lunged for his keys, started plotting out what places he would check first, who he could call. Was it too much of a risk to involve the police? Yes I’d like to report my little brother missing he’s skinny as a beanpole, thinks he's too clever for his own good-but then Dean saw something through the window, an image divided by the venetian blinds: Sam, standing in the middle of the parking lot, barefoot and staring up at the night sky with a small, quiet smile.

He was twenty feet away. He was star gazing.  He was fine. _He was fine_.

Dean deflated like a balloon, had to sit down to stop his hands from shaking. He took a deep breath and watched Sam through the blinds, like he was never gonna let the kid out of his sight again. Shaken to the core, Dean started to realize how far this kid had crawled under his skin.

After a few more steady breaths Dean left the room, joined Sam out on the pavement. “What are you doing out here?” Dean asked. He placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder, just to confirm his presence.

Sam turned to him, apologetic. “I wanted to watch the sun rise. Sorry, did I wake you?”

Dean blinked, glanced out towards the eastern horizon. The simplicity of the wish; wouldn’t have thought of something like this in a million years. He shook his head at the question, and they watched the thin line between land and sky together.

“You said you got out of work when the sun rose,” Sam recalled, whispered like they were in a museum exhibit. “But I…I haven’t seen one in such a long time. It doesn’t seem like something you’d miss. But then you realize all this time it was something you took for granted, just being able to walk outside and watch it.” Sam laughed to himself. “That probably seems stupid.”

Dean kneaded his fingers into the bony shoulder of this kid, one thing in front of him he promised to never take for granted. “It’s not stupid,” he assured.

They waited. The change was slow and gradual. The stars disappeared, the atmosphere a hazy blue and then a bright light poured over the horizon. Didn’t have a clear view of where land and sky met, too much architecture, too much of Clarence, Missouri in the way but they could still see the sun rising over the town, bathing everything in a pink light.

It wasn’t the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen. Sunrises were a dime a dozen, and personally he would have preferred looking at the stars. But he knew this was important to Sam, the way he held his breath until the sun was over the horizon and let it out with a shaky laugh.

“I almost forgot,” Sam said, glanced at Dean to acknowledge they were sharing the same intimacy. “It’s beautiful.”

But Dean had stopped paying attention to the horizon a long time ago, traded it for watching the awe on Sam’s face instead. “Yeah,” he agreed. And thought maybe now was the right time.

Dean had driven to Douglas County in a rush, hadn’t thought of anything but transporting a warm body from Kansas to Illinois. It wasn’t until he found Sam in the middle of his trial that reality started to sink in. What the fuck was he supposed to tell Sam? Dean had grimaced at the thought. This kid had wanted a proper family, people he could start over with, but instead he got another dead mother, a dying father, and a fucked up older brother. That’s not what Sam wanted, _he_ wasn’t what Sam wanted, but Dean still sat outside that courthouse everyday trying to think of a way to convince Sam he should come with him. Had already decided he wasn’t leaving Kansas without him.

To his surprise Sam made it easy. Just hopped in his car like he already trusted Dean with his life. That gave Dean hope, and since then he had been working up the nerve.

“Sam,” he started. Good way to start, really, with someone’s name. Right? Okay, good. So what was next. “I um…I have to tell you something.”

Sam pulled himself away from the scenery. Looked up at Dean, waiting, expectant. “Yeah?”

Dean broke out into a cold sweat, felt the weight of his reveal heavy on his shoulders, a knot twisted in his throat. “I um, I.  I’m.” Licked his lips, suddenly parched. “The reason I’m here, I mean, the reason I picked you up. It’s because. Not because I was rolling through town. That’s not-I wasn’t telling the truth. Well I mean, sort of, but it’s more than that Sam. I _meant_ to come find you because, well because-“

“Dean.”

Felt like such an ass, stammering in front of Sam like this. But there wasn’t any good way to say it without it sounding like a joke, or like they were on some episode of Springer. Thankfully Sam relieved the pressure, interrupted him with a calm smile.

“It’s okay," Sam said. "I know.” Then wrapped his arms around him and hugged him tight.

Dean faltered. Opened his mouth to clarify but they were interrupted by laughter, high-pitched and drunken. A man and woman chasing each other through the parking lot, weaving through cars until they finally embraced, kissed and moaned loudly at each other’s touches; didn’t care who saw.

Dean was exhausted. He'd missed his opportunity and would have to wait for another. He muttered something about the pair getting a room and disentangled himself from Sam. “I'm crashing. You coming?” he asked, and began the retreat back to their own room.

Sam lingered, watched the couple, pressed against a car now, the woman’s nylon leg wrapped around her lover. Then he followed Dean.

Dean collapsed back on his bed, weary from driving, from worrying, from this stupid secret he was afraid to share. Heard the door shut behind him. Looked up to confirm it was Sam before he laid back and closed his eyes. Allowed himself to relax, knowing where Sam was at.

“ _Dean_?” Eyes fluttered open again. Sam’s voice, like he wanted something.

“Hmm?” He felt the bed move, the sinking weight of someone else crawling onto it. Sam sat beside him, leaned over him. Dean grinned sleepily. “Hey Sammy, what’s up?”

Dilated pupils, parted lips. Dean didn’t recognize the look on the fifteen year old's face, didn’t realize what was happening until Sam pressed his lips to Dean’s. For the second time the exhaustion was knocked right out of him. He grabbed Sam’s shoulder and pushed him away. Couldn’t breathe for a second maybe even two.

“What are you doing?” he gasped.

Sam looked down at him with hooded eyes. “I wanted to say thanks.”

Dean's mouth hung open and Sam laughed at him, dark and flirtatious. Jesus Christ _, his little brother was flirting with him_. “I know you must have planned this out, picking me up, rescuing me. And I wanted you to know that…I like you too Dean.”

Sam tried to kiss him again but Dean pushed him away, practically leapt off the bed scrubbing at his face angrily. “What the hell are you talking about, Sam? _Like me_? You’re just a kid! I don’t-where the hell did you get _that idea_?”

Sam watched him pace, confused. “Isn’t that what you were going to say before. That…you like me?”

Dean froze, like an engine stalling, everything jammed up at once. Stupid. _Fucking stupid_. Of course that’s what the kid was going to think, Dean dragging him out here like this without an explanation. Sam was bound to invent his own reasons and now-fuck! Dean had waited too long for the right time to tell him.

“You think I want to fuck you?” Dean asked shakily. “You think-you think I'm like Tom or something?"

"No!" Sam protested. "You're _nothing_ like him!"

"That's right," Dean agreed. "I'm _not_. Okay. I'm not _gay_. I don't _like_ little kids _."_

Sam’s face wrinkled, shamed and disgusted. 

Dean clenched his jaw. This was all his fault, his mess. His dad was right, he fucked everything up. “Sammy…”

“Don’t call me that!” Sam jerked across to the other side of the bed, sat with his back to Dean, arms wrapped around himself. Dean could tell they were on the edge of a precipice. He had to be very careful about how he went forward.

“I'm sorry Sam I didn't mean to say it like that it's just not what you think okay? Listen to me, please. I promise this is all going to make sense in a minute.” Dean sat down on the bed opposite his brother. “Sam. I found out who your family is.”

Silence, then Sam lifted his head, just an inch. “What?”

“That's why I came out to get you, because I wanted to tell you. I’ve just, I’ve been trying to figure out a way how.”

“You knew?" Sam wondered. " _This whole time_? Even after I told you what my social worker said? _Even after_ I told you I had nowhere else to go?” Gaped at him, eyes narrowed in judgement. Dean had never hated himself more.

“I know.” he sighed. “You’re right.” Dean rested his arms on his legs, fidgeted nervously with his hands.

"Well?" Sam pressed.

“Well," Dean started. "I um, I learned some things. About your family. I learned your mother passed away when you were young, shortly after you were born. Her name was Mary. She was like an angel: long blonde hair, a beautiful voice, knew like every Beatles song.” Dean smiled at the memory. “And I know she would have sung to you if she could have, Sam. I know, yeah she would have loved you with everything in her.”

Sam watched him carefully; disconcerted with the intimate details Dean seemed to have about his mother. “My social worker also said my mother passed away after I was born,” he confirmed.

Dean nodded. “I learned your dad’s a vet, Vietnam. Was a mechanic for a while then did traveling sales.” Hesitated, couldn’t think of anything else. His dad’s thirty plus years of living and that’s all his son had to say about him. “And he’s sort of a hardass,” Dean added.

“What’s his name?”

“John.”

“And?”

Dean couldn’t get his voice to work.

“ _Dean_ , I want to know what my full name is.”

“Winchester,” he whispered. “Your name’s Sam Winchester. Adoptive parents must’ve kept your first name. Hippies probably didn’t want you to be confused, stunt your development or some shit. Pretty dumb huh?” Turned to grin at Sam, false arrogance and bravado.

“But…isn’t Winchester _your_ last name?”

Kid was looking to him for confirmation but Dean plowed ahead like he didn't hear. “Yeah and you’ve got an older brother too, kind of a fuckup but all the girls think he’s gorgeous. Hasn’t done much with his life. Never once thought about going to college that’s for sure, just kind of drifts in and out of towns waiting for something to happen. Had this one stint as an officer in juvie but like everything else in his life it didn’t work out too well.”

“…Dean?”

“But then he met this kid, you know. Felt kind of protective over him, stupid little squirt. And then it turns out…ha, turns out they’re related.”

“ _Dean_.” Stopped to listen to Sam’s voice, the way it shook and wavered. Felt about the same. “What are your trying to say huh? Is this a joke to you? I swear to god Dean, if you think this is _funny_ -”

“No joke, Sammy. After things got tough in Kansas, I went back home. Found out John’s pretty sick, doesn’t have much time left so I guess he’s getting a lot of stuff off his chest. Tells me mom had you when she was sick, how he gave you up cause he wanted a better life for you. When he said the words Douglas County Corrections I don’t know, I just knew it was you.” Dug into his back pocket, unfolded a slip of paper and handed it to his kid brother. Had to bribe a couple of people for a copy of that particular document but felt a deep sense of satisfaction everytime he saw it. “See for yourself.”

Sam took his original birth certificate, his mother’s name and his own and stared at it for a long time. Then he buried his face in his hands and moaned. “ _Oh god_.”

Dean smiled sympathetically. “Told you didn’t I? You dig too deep, you’re not gonna like what you find.”

“I _kissed you_ ,” Sam whispered. “I wanted-oh my god.”

Dean sat for a long minute, not sure how to proceed. Everything in his life tangled in thorny stems. Why couldn't this one thing be innocent, be clean. “You _didn’t know_ ,” Dean insisted. “It was a mistake but it doesn't matter.”

“It _does_ matter,” Sam disagreed. “Because you rescued me Dean, once again.”

“I didn’t-Jesus, Sam. Quite twisting things! I picked you up because _you’re my little brother_. What was I _supposed_ to do, leave you?”

“And before that?" Sam insisted. "Before you even knew anything about me, you still stood up for me. You stopped Tom-you did _more_ than that Dean. And you didn’t have to do anything but you did it anyways. Because that’s just who you are. You weren’t even my brother then, you were just… _you_.” Sam gripped the sheets tightly. “How am I not supposed to fall in love with that person?"

Sam turned to him, tears in his eyes, heart presented to him.

And Dean laughed because he didn’t believe a single word.

“C’mon, what are you talking about? _Love_. You’re a fucking  _kid_ Sam, you don’t even know what that is. Yeah, I remember being your age; I was in love with a new girl every week! And then I fucked her and it was over. Like those assholes outside, screwing in some grimy-ass motel. You think that's gonna last? That's not love that's just surviving the week. But I get it okay, you were in a hard place and someone helped you out. I get that would make you feel grateful. But you don't _love_ me, Sam. You don't even _know_ me.”

Reached out to touch Sam but he jumped away from him like a frightened cat. Gaped at Dean, look of absolute betrayal. The hole in his chest where his parents sat, Jessica. “Yeah. You must be right," Sam said. "I'm just being stupid. Some _stupid_ kid. I don't have any idea what I'm talking about!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Sam.”

“Don’t forget, Dean, you kissed me too! After what you did to Tom you came to me, and we kissed! We _kissed_ , and you can’t take that back!”

“Stop it!” Dean growled. Something in him snapped, some part of himself he would prefer to overlook. Jumped off the bed and flew at Sam, grabbed him around the arms and squeezed. “Shutup, Sam. Just shutup! That’s not what happened!”

Sam, like a limp doll in his arms. And petrified. “Stop it! Let me go! Dean, let me go!”

Then Dean saw stars, fell to his knees, hands wrapped around his dick. Sam flew out of his grip and fumbled with the nearest motel key. Dean remembered his father, gaping like a fish in the hallway of their house. Because John had put his hands on him. And Sam had returned the favor. Was almost thankful when the door opened, smashed him in the face and knocked him out cold.

Dean woke up with a splitting headache and dried blood on his nose. Couldn’t tell exactly how long he’d been making out with the carpet but Sam was long gone by then. Checked the lot again, shouting his little brother’s name, but Sam wasn’t waiting there for him like he had been this morning. He was gone, and Dean had driven him away.

Slammed the motel door shut and threw over a table in his anger. Lamp overturned and the bulb cracked. Would probably have to pay for that later.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, shaking, tears in his eyes. Didn’t understand his reaction, the rush of anger and denial. Had never meant to touch Sam like that, to scare him. Felt like dirt, absolute scum. Who would want a brother like him? Sam deserved so much better, this bright little kid. Deserved someone who could care for him, who wouldn’t cause him so much pain, someone who wasn’t as fucked in the head as he was.

Even so, Dean didn’t want to give the job to anyone else. Selfishly, he wanted Sam all to himself. Because Sam was finally his. Not some ward attached to a job. Not some kid he felt sorry for, miles away. He was his little brother. Dean had a claim on him now, an excuse. Finally felt he could have something that belonged just to him. And he wasn’t about to let go of that so easily.

Steadied breaths, a new determination. Dean stood up, thought about where he could search. Hadn’t stolen his car so kid couldn’t have gotten that far. But then he noticed something was missing, reached into his back pocket and realized his wallet was gone. Searched the motel and his car but concluded it was gone for good. Sam must have taken it.

Went to the motel lobby and used the courtesy phone to make a call. Old man behind the desk frowned at him, had maybe seen Sam and Dean loitering in the parking lot that morning, had maybe jumped to his own conclusions. Dean turned his back to him.

“Yeah, hi. Listen, my uh credit card just got stolen.”

A chipper, female voice greeted him on the other end. “Would you like us to cancel the card and put a freeze on the account Mr. Aframian?”

Hesitated, too worried about Sam to remember all of his aliases. “No. No my uh…my cousin took it. Dumb kid, just kind of ran off. He does this all the time. I just want to know where he’s at, so if there’s any new charges can you call me back at this number? Let me know.”

“I’ll put a flag on your account. If there’s any activity we’ll let you know.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Hung up.

“Ain’t your personal answerin’ machine,” old man said, gave him a look through narrowed eyes.

Dean reached into his back pocket, was gonna slip the old man a twenty just to keep him happy but then he remembered his wallet was gone. “Bill me,” he growled. Left the motel lobby and slid straight into his car, turned over the engine. Already felt that empty passenger seat like a hole in his gut.

Dean scoured Clarence, Missouri. Drove to every bus stop, bus station, called every taxi company in the phone book. Cruised past every pizza parlour, fast food joint, motel and inn he could think of. But there was nothing. Miles and miles of nothing. Started scanning the sides of the road for any signs of a body buried in the brush but no-no, he couldn’t bear to think of that.

Five hours later and there was still no sign of Sam. He stopped back at the Trails End just to check for messages. The old man behind the desk reluctantly admitted that a woman from a credit company had tried to reach him. He immediately phoned back.

“We’ve had one count of recent activity,” the same, chipper woman informed him. “A tattoo parlor in Macon, Missouri. Does that sound familiar?”

“A w _hat_?”

“Bonzai Tattoo,” the woman explained. “What would you like me to do Mr. Aframian?”

Dean used his shoulder to hold the phone, scrambled with some nearby pamphlets advertising the Titanic Museum in Branson. “Just give me the address,” he said and scrawled what he was told across the picture of a sinking ship. “Thanks.” Hung up and left before the old man could complain.

He drove like a bat out of hell the twelve miles to Macon. Pulled up in front of some tattoo shop sharing real estate with a Laundromat and consumed two parking spaces in his haste. Threw open the doors of the shop like a spaghetti western shouting the name “Sam!”  Secretary behind the desk, couple sitting up front, and a teenage girl with two Hanson brothers on her legs, getting the third on her side all looked up at Dean.

Dean scanned their faces but none of them were Sam. “M’lookin’ for a fifteen-year-old kid,” he explained.  “This tall, needs a haircut, goes by the name of Sam. Might have come in a few hours ago.”

“Dean?”

Sam emerged from the back adjusting the collar of his Van Halen shirt. Dean saw a small bandage taped across his collar bone. Practically jumped on top of Sam, a tight bundle of wound up nerves and sudden relief. Wanted to throttle him, hug him, but he just hovered over him and refused to touch. Learned his lesson that way.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean accused. “I have been looking everywhere for you Sam- _everywhere_ goddamnit!”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Sam stared at the floor, apologetic. Even though it was Dean who should have apologized, should have gotten on his knees and begged Sam to forgive him. But Sam gave in easily, always gave everything to him too easily.

“Let’s get out of here,” Glanced up self-consciously at the eyes on them. Glared at each of them like a challenge and left, thankful to hear Sam following behind him faithfully.

Outside they separated, stood on either side of the car. Driver and passenger.

Dean placed his palm on top of the Impala. Five hours and he thought ‘sorry’ would be easier than this.

“I’m sorry, Dean!” Sam blurted. Made Dean wince, wished he would stop saying that. “I was going to call you afterwards, honestly.  I just…I needed to clear my head.”

Dean swallowed his bitter response. “Is it clear?”

Sam stared across the Impala’s hood, nodded.

“Good. Get in the car.”

Settled inside, gripping the steering wheel tight. Didn’t glance over at Sam as he closed the door, sealing themselves up tight. 

“I’ll drive you back if you want,” Dean said quietly. “To Kansas or California. If you don’t want to be in the car with me that long I’ll buy you a bus ticket, or I’ll put you on an airplane. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll get you there. But. Listen to me first.”

“…okay.”

Dean swallowed in the small space. Okay. “You don’t owe me thanks, or even gratitude, Sam. What I did in Douglas County…I-I don’t know why. Because of my job, because of something else, I’m not really sure. But I _do_ know that what I’m doing now is because you’re my brother. Whether you like it or not that’s just how it is. That doesn’t have to mean anything to you if you don’t want it to. I haven’t been there for you, not from the beginning, not like a brother should. I wasn’t there when you fell off your bike for the first time, or when you got a good grade on your paper. I wasn’t there for any of your birthdays. I haven’t been there for so long that you don’t know what it’s like to be without me. You haven’t gotten so used to me that you take me for granted. But I want that, yeah? I want that chance, Sam. To be the brother that you deserve. If you’ll let me.”

Licked his lips slowly. “And anything else there might be. I’m…you know, I’m willing to work around it.”

“I’d like that.”

Dean glanced over, surprised. Sam smiled, slow, secretive.

“You always looked out for me even what you didn’t have to,” Sam said. “And when you tried to stop Tom for good, when you kissed me-”

Dean’s hands tightened on the wheel.

“-it felt like, I don’t know, like a promise or, a pact. Like when people shake hands and mix blood? So after I thought about it, about you being my brother, it made sense. You know, if you look at it universally.”

Dean stared out the steel framed window of the Impala, out onto Walnut Street, two lanes lined with trees until it disappeared from view. Wondered how you looked at things universally.

“That piece of paper back at the motel just made it formal,” Sam concluded. “I’m happy you’re my brother, Dean. I want you to be.”

Dean nodded stiffly. His joy was tight and constricted in his chest. Couldn’t bear to look at Sam.  “Yeah. Okay. Good.”

Then Sam handed him his wallet back. “I um. I’m sorry I kicked you in the balls and ran off with your credit card.”

Dean scoffed, tucked the folded leather back in his pocket. Finally felt like everything was where it should be again. “Probably deserved it. Well, no, not the credit card bit-what the hell were you doing here, Sam?”

Sam picked at the hole in his jeans. Shrugged. “I walked. Wanted to clear my head. I thought about hitchhiking back to Kansas but, I don’t know. Anyways, by the time I got here I already knew what I wanted. I saw this place. I thought they would give me a hard time because of my age but once they knew I could pay for it they didn't seem to care. So…” Sam gingerly pulled back the collar of his Van Halen t-shirt, exposed his neck line where a square bandage had been taped to his skin. Sam peeled it off and revealed the black design on his red, irritated skin. Sam smiled, touched it reverently. “I told them my name was Sam Winchester.”

Dean stared with a haunted expression. His chest ached where the exact same tattoo sat. He didn’t smile.


	13. Chapter 13

 

**Six years ago. Normal, Illinois.**

Dean grit his teeth as the needle hit him. Gripped the sides of his chair and stared at the popcorn ceiling above his head. Focused on the low whirring hum of the tattoo gun as it punctured his skin a hundred times a second.

The bald kid bent over him was covered in tattoos, most of them he’d done himself. Roy Gleaseman had been in and out of juvenile detention since he was Dean’s age. Got tired of drawing on himself with ball point pen and decided to make the ink a little more permanent. Sharpened the plastic tip of a pen while in juvie. When he got out, Roy saved up enough money to buy himself a tattoo gun. Said he was going to start his own company someday but for now he was satisfied with a chair in his studio apartment and any open patch of skin he could mark. Roy would tattoo anything as long as you paid him enough. So even though Dean was only thirteen, when he’d handed over the drawing he’d made and a roll of money Roy shook his hand and showed him the chair.

“This is some trippy design,” Roy said. Pulled back the gun and wiped the blood from Dean’s skin. “Like a band logo or something?”

“It’s a sigil,” Dean said quietly. He’d taken pain killers and a few shots of whiskey. Was already swimming comfortably in his numbness. “It’s supposed to keep demons away.”

“Demons huh? Intense. You believe in that stuff, kid?” Could see the flicker of doubt in his gray eyes, wondering if Dean was some kind of religious freak, wondering if maybe he should be a little bit more discriminating about his future clients.

“I believe there’s something out there that makes people do bad things,” Dean said. “You know that phrase ‘what possessed them to do that?’ It’s when someone you thought you knew becomes suddenly different. Like, bad. Evil.”

“And this is supposed to protect you from that?” his tattoo artist asked.

“It’s so that I won’t get possessed by the same evil,” Dean explained. “So that I don’t grow up and do something awful too.”

**Present Day.**

This was the ‘after’ Dean had mentioned in the car. After the confession. After the crossroad. After they decided to keep riding in the same car together. It was full of uncertainty and just a small, shivering thrill of excitement that ran over Sam’s skin like goosebumps. He had a family now. He belonged somewhere. The hard part was over with. This was after.

So after driving back to Clarence, Missouri, Sam sat on his bed and folded his hands in his lap. Looked at Dean sternly. “I want to know everything,” he said.

For once Dean didn’t resist. He gave Sam a selective biography: his time at home and his time away. Skimmed past all the legs that had spread for him and skipped over Douglas County, to the past few weeks where he’d learned how sick John was.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said when he heard the prognosis, less than six months. “I’d like to meet him. If you think he’d be okay with that.”

 “Of course he would, Sam. You’re his _son_.” Dean thought he sounded like his dad, then, empty insistence on family and the ties that bind. He’d heard the spiel so often. It was like a top 40 song. You knew the tune, the chorus, enough to get it stuck in your head but you could never put the whole thing together, never get it to quite make sense. But Dean believed in the word ‘family’, for once, maybe for the first time since his mom had died. Sam was _his_ family. It gave him a right to be with Sam. He didn’t want to fuck it up.

“Rachel told me he denied my request to be able to contact him, remember?” Sam said.

“I don’t why he did that, Sam. You’ll have to ask him yourself.” Even though the thought of Sam and his father in the same room made Dean’s stomach twist. Clenched his knuckles possessively. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I’m sure.”

Dean had this daydream in his head of whisking Sam off to some other state, starting over, leaving his past behind him. It was a cruel idea, leaving his father to die alone. He knew, in his head, that it was wrong. In his heart, where his compassion was supposed to be, there was a hollow void.

“Fine,” Dean agreed. “We’ll go. I guess if we leave now, we can get back by dark.”

It was another three hours to Normal, Illinois. They pulled up in front of the Winchester home just before dusk. John’s truck was still parked on the side of the road. Dean checked his phone, no messages. Expected the hospital to have released his father by now. Muscles tensed, like bracing for impact.

They entered through the front door. Switched on the lights, the house empty and dark. Sam rushed inside like an eager puppy. He tried to look at everything at once and just ended up spinning around in circles.

“Oh my gosh Dean is that you when you were young?" Sam said, pointing at a small framed photo on the wall. "I can’t believe you were ever _young_. And short! Look at your freckles. Aww, how cute.” Sam pretended to pinch teeny Deany’s cheeks. It was the most emasculating thing Dean had ever suffered.

“Stop it,” he frowned. “You’re gonna sleep in the car if you keep that up.”

Sam laughed, looked at the other photos. Stopped in front of a small family portrait. A vibrant woman with blonde hair holding her young son smiled out at him. Sam stared, transfixed. “Is that her?” he asked. “Is that Mary?”

Dean approached. Smiled at the photo fondly. “Yeah,” he confirmed.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. She was.”

Sam bit back the emotions swelling in his chest, the ache of his own loss still raw in him. He missed his own mother and his own father, his house, his room, all the familiar things he didn’t have anymore. He had to get used to this now, Dean and a house full of pictures of strangers. He wanted to believe it was enough.

“Hey Dean, where’s _your_ room?”

His brother waved absently down the hallway. “Go ahead, knock yourself out. I’ve got some calls to make, figure out if dad’s still in the hospital or what.”

Sam grinned. With renewed energy he trotted off down the hall.

Dean called out after him. “Just don’t _touch_ anything!”

 

Sam couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, not even if he tried. In his head, Dean had always been, well, _Dean_. Like the first day he had seen him in Douglas County, descending like an angel of wrath on the kids trying to hurt him. He didn’t come from anywhere, he just always _was_. So it was impossible to imagine Dean at Sam’s age, let alone as a _kid_. But now Sam was here, right at the heart of Dean’s childhood. It felt taboo, standing in the center of the room where Dean had slept, had grown up, had probably jerked off.

Sam felt himself color, surprised to find those thoughts still in his head, despite what he knew.

Dean was guarded. He was careful about what he shared with Sam. Imagined him treading through life like that, giving people scraps, keeping everything else to himself. Sam felt he should be grateful for the chance to learn a little more about him. Should be respectful.

So of course he immediately started rooting through Dean’s drawers.

First dresser held jeans and shirts-larger versions of everything Dean had handed off to him. Top drawer was filled with socks and folded pairs of Dean’s boxers. Sam had once hidden a friend’s dirty magazine in the back of his own underwear drawer. So he stuck his hands inside and felt around blindly.

Ah-hah! Found a small glass pipe with a bowl at the end, red and yellow stripes swirled across the surface. Sam laughed. Yeah, he could see that. He searched the drawer again. Came across a folded accordion of new condoms plus one used one (ew, Dean, gross!).

Wiped his hands off, decided he’d had enough of drawers and decided to examine Dean’s record player. Next to it was a crate of albums. He flipped through the stack. Noticed every poster on the wall was an album in the crate, like a visual index. Sam was familiar with the bands but he’d already sold his teenage soul to Nirvana.

Sam examined the rest of the room, ran his hands over the model cars that decorated the shelves. Most kids collected superheroes, action figures, but instead Dean had nearly every incarnation of the Chevy Impala carefully recreated in miniature. Sam imagined a ten-year-old Dean playing with cars, dreaming of the day he could drive his own.

Finally Sam laid on Dean’s bed, ran his hands absently over the sheets. He was probably being weird about this, but Dean’s room, his home, reminded Sam that his older brother had lived a whole life without him. He felt cheated, suddenly, of fifteen years without Dean.

Sam pushed himself up on his elbows, watched Dean talking on the phone through the open door. He smiled to himself. They had a lot of time to make up for.

When Sam laid down again he felt a lump beneath Dean’s pillow. Shifted his weight and pushed it aside. Revealed the metallic sheen of a small revolver. Sam recoiled, fell off the bed like he’d found a cobra about to strike. The pillow fell back into place, covered the threat but Sam still stared, his heart racing. Dean was speaking heatedly into the phone, he didn’t notice.

 Sam advanced again, slowly. Threw aside the pillow and took a long hard look at the gun sitting on Dean’s bed.

It was a foreign object to Sam. His dad had never been an enthusiast, nor his mother. Brady’s dad had one, found it once before he hid it away somewhere Brady never found it again. Sam picked it up carefully. Held it in his spread palms, no desire to hold it or pretend it gave him any power.

“What are you doing?!”

Surprised. Sam turned to find panic in his big brother’s eyes.

“Dean?”

“Sammy! Jesus! Give me that!” Dean lunged. Yanked the gun away by its barrel and emptied the bullets into his shaking hands. “I told you not to _touch anything_!”

“I was sitting on your bed. I found it under your pillow. I’m sorry Dean, I didn’t…I didn’t mean to-” but Sam didn’t even know what he was apologizing for.

Dean shoved the bullets into his pocket. Shoved the gun into the drawer Sam had rooted through earlier. He shoved it back where Sam wasn’t supposed to find it. Where Dean didn’t have to think about it. He slammed the drawer shut. Muscles tensed, shaking. Sam couldn’t tell if it was anger or fear.

“He transferred himself to Chicago,” Dean said quiet, harsh. “To a hospice. Do you know what that means Sam? It means he’s given up. It means he’s not even gonna _fight_ this. I thought once I found out how bad it was he would finally do something about it.” Dean refused to be sad about his father. Was a nuclear reactor of anger instead. “But he’s just gonna lie down _like a dog_ , instead.”

Sam just stood there, didn’t know what to say. The gun. Dean’s anger. His father. Didn’t know how to connect any of the dots. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Dean shook his head. “No. I want to know, I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.” Dean sighed, let some weight drop off him.  “But…tomorrow, okay Sam?”

Sam nodded vigorously. “Okay.” Tentatively sat back down on the bed. Changed the subject to ease some tension. “I like your room,” he said lightly.

Dean was still pressed against the dresser drawer like there was something inside he had to physically barricade from Sam.

“And your record collection, I was looking through it. Too bad there’s nothing good.”

Dean scoffed. Smiled slowly. Moved towards the record collection in question. “Yeah? What the hell do brats like you listen to anyways?”

“Oh well. I go through phases. But right now I’m pretty big into Spice Girls.”

Dean laughed. Sam smiled at his own joke.

“Yeah well hate to break it to you kid, but you’re gonna be listening to that shit on your own time.” Dean pulled out an album and placed the record on the player. Led Zeppelin started to play, _Heartbreaker_ poured out in smooth, clear tones.

“You’re no fun,” Sam grinned.

“Nope.” Dean joined his kid brother on the bed, sprawled out on the opposite end. Closed his eyes, just wanted to listen to the music. Sam sat back as well, head inclined towards his brother. Thought more about that gun under Dean’s pillow than Jimmy Page’s screaming chords.

Music continued. _She’s a Living, Loving Maid_ spilled over into _Ramble On_.

“You know, you don’t have to pretend like everything’s okay on my account,” Sam said.

Dean sighed through his nose, didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Yeah well Sammy, I’m not gonna lie, it’s not been all rainbows and blowjobs lately.”

Sam smirked. “I know. But you don’t have to hold me at arm’s length anymore okay? You can tell me anything you want, cause I’m your little brother. That means I get to know you better than anybody else does.”

Dean thought about that. “You want to know something about me, Sammy?” Opened one eye, peeked over at him.

Sam held his breath.

“How about this: I lost my V card to this song,” Dean said. Closed his eyes again and settled back into the bed with a satisfied smile. “Robert Plant singing the lead and this chick from across the street moaning backup.”

Sam flushed, sat up. Dean looked over at him again and laughed.

“Oh. Um. What was her name?” Sam asked. Not because he cared, just didn’t want to feel like such an inexperienced little kid.

Dean shrugged. “Sally, maybe? Sarah? Fuck.”

“You don’t remember her name?”

Dean frowned.

“Just, most people remember their first time,” Sam shrugged. “I thought it was, you know I always imagined it being special.”

Dean huffed, like Sam had insulted him. “Who’s selling you that crap Sammy? And so what if I don’t remember her name. I’ll tell you what I _do_ remember.” Sat up on his elbow, looked Sam straight in the eye. “I remember the smell of her perfume, some discount gas station shit cause she thought it made her smell classy. I had to scrub that crap out of my clothes the next day. But she gave it up like a real pro, you know. Spread her legs right after our first kiss. And I remember pushing up her skirt, seeing those pink pussy lips of hers drooling. God she wanted it. And it felt so fucking good to be inside of her. To fuck her. You know what I mean Sammy? You know what a woman feels like?”

Sam’s cheeks burned. “Don’t,” he said, looking away.

“Don’t what? I thought I could tell you everything Sammy. S’matter, don’t like what you hear?”

Sam said nothing. They sat in silence before _Bring it on Home_ started to play.

“Look,” Dean said gently. “You probably still believe in love, Sam, all that valentine’s day crap. And that’s fine. But it’s never been that way for me. Sure I thought it was something special, thought it would last and sometimes it does. Maybe a week, maybe a month but never longer than that. You realize what you are to each other, what you’ve always been. A good fuck. And that’s it.” 

Dean shut his eyes. “That’s it,” he said. He still believed nothing could touch him.

Vitas hospice in Chicago was a four story building of cement and glass that loomed above them in the gray sky. It was a two and a half hour drive from Normal and Dean complained about the traffic the whole way. “Traffic” being anything that slowed down his 80mph lead foot.

They checked in around noon and the brothers were led to the third floor. Dean stopped outside their father’s room. Held out his hand. “Wait here,” he said. Left Sam outside and entered alone.

It was a moderate sized bedroom, about the same size his father slept in at home. It was painted a cool gray, probably meant to be relaxing, and had a couch, even a recliner. But the bed was unmistakably hospital-issued. You'd never forget where you were at.

John was lying on the bed now, covered by a light blanket. Dean noticed the weight loss. Even his cheeks were sallow and empty like something had been drained from him. His father looked frail and thin in this room with its too-bright lights. It was hard to imagine this was the monster in so many of his nightmares.

The tv in the corner droned but he probably hadn’t been watching it even before Dean entered. “I brought your son,” he announced. Dragged a chair to the foot of the bed and sat down.

John saw Sam’s curious face peeking through the glass. He smiled, look of relief. “He’s all grown,” his father wondered.

“Almost,” Dean agreed. “Wanted to meet you. Probably feels like you owe him an _explanation_.”

“You’re angry with me,” John observed.

Dean said nothing.

“I thought you’d be happy I gave you space.”

“From you _dying_?”

John could feel another argument brewing, but he was too tired to fight. “You heard the diagnosis. It’s not going to get better, or stop. And I know you, son, I know you think I’m giving up but the honest to god truth is that I’m dying Dean, and there’s no tip-toeing around that. And I don’t want to do chemo, vomit my guts out. I want to die with a little dignity and that’s my own damn choice.”

“You could at least be home,” Dean insisted. “I would…I would help you.”

But if John had lost weight, he hadn't lost his pride. “I’m not turning the house into a mausoleum. Not after what you went through with your mother. And not when you have the boy.”

They both looked at Sam again.

“I’m selling the house,” John announced, raised his hand before Dean could protest. “It’s for you Dean, for both of you. I figure you’ll need the money, wherever you decide to go.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asked. “Who said I was going anywhere?”

“I meant _after_ ,” John explained. “After _this_. There won’t be any reason for you stick around will there?”

Dean blinked furiously, didn’t meet his father’s gaze. “Sam wants to go to Stanford,” he said. “Wants to be like a lawyer or something.”

John smiled. “Smart kid. Applies himself.”

Dean nodded weakly.

“You did good, son.”

Dean got out of the chair hastily. “I’ll get Sam.” Was about to approach the door but lingered. “Just one thing,” he whispered. “What you did fifteen years ago? Means you abdicated all of your responsibilities with him. _He’s mine_. I want you to know that. And I want you to know that I would do anything to spare him one second of suffering. So watch what you say, John. And don’t touch him. I swear to god, don’t you _ever, ever_ touch him.”

Dean shook with emotion, fists clenched at his side. John said nothing, didn’t need to. They understood each other. Dean opened the door to let Sam in and his little brother stepped inside tentatively. Dean made brusque introductions.

“John, Sam. Sam, John.”

Sam looked to his older brother, uncertain, and then slowly met his father’s gaze. “Um. Hi.”

“Hello, Sam.”

Another glance at Dean, expected him to shepherd them through this conversation but Dean said nothing. He only nodded at John, indicated Sam should approach.

Sam tensed, slowly walked towards the man on the bed.

“Has Dean been taking good care of you?” John asked.

Sam relaxed; it was easy to talk about Dean. “Yeah,” he said with a carefree grin. “He’s great, I mean, he’s been doing great.” Ducked his head, felt everyone watching him.

“That’s good,” John said. “I heard you’ve been through some tough times.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m sorry about your parents. I was never able to meet them, but they must have been good people, if you’re anything to judge by.”

Sam nodded solemnly.

“Dean tells me you want to go to Stanford.”

Sam looked up in surprise, glanced back at Dean to confirm but Dean ignored him. “Yes,” Sam finally confirmed. “I do. I want to finish high school with good grades so they’ll offer me a scholarship.”

John admired the confidence in his son’s voice. “Good. That’s good. You work hard and you’ll get what you want.”

Sam smiled at the praise.

“I’m sure you have some questions for me, Sam. I don’t know if I’ll be able to answer all of them, but I’ll be as honest with you as you are with me.”

Dean, standing in the back, scoffed.

Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek. “My social worker went through this whole legal process of petitioning to have my records unsealed, all so that she could contact you. But. You didn’t want me to? She said there might be a lot of reasons why. I spent some time trying to think of one. But I couldn’t.”

“That’s because it wasn’t my decision,” John explained. “I left that up to Dean. It was _his_ decision whether or not he would contact you. It might be hard to understand, Sam, but I only ever had your best intentions in mind.”

“It’s true, Sam,” Dean chimed in, staring blankly at the wall. “He honestly thought you would be better off.”

Sam glanced back at Dean, concerned.

“I never wanted you to suffer the things that you have,” John continued. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes and I won’t have time to atone for all of them. That’s why I told Dean. I wanted you to know you still had family. He’ll take care of you now. He’s made that perfectly clear.”

Sam missed the look Dean and John exchanged.

“Dean told me about what happened to Mary…my mom? A-and I saw pictures, back at the house.”

“She named you after your grandfather, Samuel Campbell,” John explained. “I’m glad your parents choose to keep that name. That part of her survives. And her smile too, I think.”

Sam bit his bottom lip. “I don’t know if I understand what happened, exactly. She passed away after I was born right? Did I…kill her?”

“Jesus! Sammy?” Dean blurted out. Shocked to hear something that dark from his little brother.

Sam hung his head as Dean’s hand touched his shoulder.

“When they brought her into surgery I thought I would lose you both,” John said. “But you hung in there, and so did she. For another two months. I had hope, once, that we could beat it and come together as a family. But then her health took a turn for the worse and it never recovered. But it wasn’t because of you, Sam. It wasn’t.”

Sam nodded that he understood, kept his head down, hair obscuring his face. Didn’t want to cry in front of everyone.

“I think that’s enough for one day,” Dean said. Squeezed Sam’s shoulder and pulled him away from John.

Sam could see Dean had been affected by the exchange as well. Felt guilty for even existing.

“Wait by the car for me,” Dean said.

“Okay,” Sam agreed, and left.

Dean watched him retreat down the hallway. “You should get a medal for that act,” he scowled, when he knew Sam couldn’t hear them. “ _Work hard and you’ll get what you want_ ,” he mocked. Like his dad had ever been the supportive type.

“I wasn’t acting,” John said sternly. “He’s my son and I’m proud of him.”

“ _I’m_ your son!” Dean exclaimed. “Name one time you’ve ever been proud of _me_.”

“Name one time I _should have_ been proud of you!” John retorted. “You have a rap sheet longer than even _you_ can remember. You drift in and out of towns doing nothing with your life. What am I supposed to be proud of Dean, that you simply exist?”

“Yes!” Dean hissed. “Because you made _me_. You made _this_.” Waved his hand where Sam had been standing before. Bit his tongue. It was there in the hollow of his throat, this confession that his intentions weren’t that pure. It wasn’t enough to be connected by blood. He wanted to make Sam his, the only way he knew how. Couldn’t think of anyone else to blame but the man that had poisoned him first.

John sat up in bed, the only time he’d moved during this entire exchange. “Listen to me carefully, Dean. I have never been more proud of you than I am today. You found your brother, you took responsibility. I know that you’re going to take care of Sasm. I can see it in your face. He’s in good hands. I trust you with him, Dean, more than I trusted myself.”

Dean gasped at the knife that had been twisted in his gut. Turned his back and stumbled out of the room as quickly as he could, clutching his stomach. Ran to a private bathroom at the end of the hall. Locked the door and collapsed onto the vanity. Let out a terrible sob that shook him. Caught his image in the mirror and recoiled.  He’d never felt more like a monster, hiding in human skin. Thought that rescuing Sam would make it better. Thought the kid being his brother would set him straight. But something in Dean still ached. Like the need for a cigarette but deeper.

He pulled back the collar of his shirt and stared at the tattoo drawn over his heart. The sigil hadn’t worked. He’d grown up awful too.

 


	14. Chapter 14

A storm was brewing out over the horizon. Sam inhaled the morning air, earthy and damp, the way it always was before the rain. With a backpack slung across his shoulder, he watched the gray clouds gather in the east. It was a dark, ominous thing that had been there for days. Building, but never approaching. The imminent threat of rain.

Dean locked the door behind him and muttered an apology for being late. Brushed past Sam, sliding on a beat-up green jacket. Hadn’t worn the leather one since Chicago. They got in the car and drove in silence to Normal Community High School.

Sam had started his sophmore year, was worried that he would get held back because of his time in juvenile detention but they gave him a test to see where he placed, decided he was good enough to stay on track and even placed him in advanced courses. Dean got a construction job. Sam would come home every night with heavy books and assignments due the next day. Dean would come home exhausted, smelling like an ash tray. This was their new routine. And it was normal. Almost.

A week after Chicago, a Century 21 sign had popped up in their lawn. Agatha, a blonde real estate agent in a sharp suit and too much eye makeup toured the house. She had a one-sided discussion with Dean about what they could do to improve the property’s value, increase interest for potential buyers. And Dean didn’t listen to a word of it.

“Not my goddamn idea in the first place,” he complained afterwards. “Somebody wants this house they’re gonna get it as-is, cobwebs and mildew included.”

Sam came home every night to that sign in their front yard. House for sale, memories included. Reminded him that they were waiting for a tragedy. Their lives were in limbo. Rain clouds gathered.

Everything felt uncertain, even his relationship with Dean. He drank too much, smoked too much. Disappeared for hours at a time and wouldn’t say where he was. They barely talked anymore, never joked. If Dean and him were in the same room together Dean always had an excuse to leave. Sam tried to examine what had changed, if he did anything wrong, but couldn’t figure out any difference except that they had visited John. He knew Dean wasn’t on the best terms with his father but it still wasn’t fair. Felt like he was promised a family, at least a brother. Got a chaperon as a consolation prize.

But Sam was too stubborn to let go of something that belonged to him. So the next night he followed his brother outside the house, before Dean executed one of his infamous disappearing acts.

“Where are you going?” Sam demanded.

Dean stood by the Impala, fidgeting with his keys. “Nowhere.”

“Bullshit.”

“Honest.”

“ _Every night_? You go nowhere _every_ night?” Sam pressed.

“Yup.”

“Why?”

Dean unlocked the door, swung it open. “Because I want to.”

Sam panicked. “Well I’m going with you!” he decided. Ran to the other side of the car but the door was locked. He lingered there expectantly.

Dean sat inside the car, stared at his little brother curiously. “Don’t you have homework?” he grunted.

“I’m done.”

Dean still hesitated.

“If you’re not going anywhere, Dean, then why can’t I come?” Sam challenged. Frowned, lips pursed, brows drawn together.

Dean sighed, leaned over and unlocked the door. Sam slid into the passenger seat, adjusted his seat belt as Dean slid his keys into the ignition. The Impala came to life, two bright headlights reflected off the front of the house. Dean slowly pulled them out of the driveway, out onto the small road that freed them of their cul-de-sac. Sam paid close attention to the roads they were traveling, tried to piece together the destination from what little he knew of the town. But when Dean pulled out onto 1-55 heading South he was lost.

“So. Where are we going?” he finally asked.

“Nowhere,” Dean answered. “I already told you.”

Sam stared out the window, flat lands in the dark. “But we’re on the highway.”

“Yeah. Go a different direction every night, drive for ‘bout an hour, maybe more. Then I come back.”

“Until one day, you don’t?”

Dean laughed at his little brother. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Sam shrugged, sank into his seat. Vinyl creaked. “I don’t know. You’ve been…weird, lately.”

Dean was silent for a beat, turned the wheel for a soft curve in the road. “It’s that house, Sam. I can’t stand to be in that house for long. I never could.”

“Oh.” Sam said. “I thought I did something, like, you couldn’t stand to be around me anymore.”

“No,” Dean said. “But…I did think a little distance was for the best.”

“Why?” Sam asked, wounded.

“I-I don’t know. It just seemed like it would be for the best,” he repeated, fumbling. “Plus you’re in school now, making new friends. I figured you’d be hanging out with them. At your age? I was never at home.”

Sam shook his head. “I feel like I’m hiding when I’m around other people now, hoping they don’t notice what a freak I am. I have to pretend like I didn’t just spend two years of my life in a jail cell. Nothing’s the same as it was before.”

Dean scoffed. “You’re not a freak, Sam.”

“No? But I feel like one. Everyone else has two parents and a big home and the newest ipod and I-" Sam’s throat swelled shut, he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“You’ve got an absentee father and now an absentee brother,” Dean said. Cut himself so casually, barely noticed the blood anymore.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam said. “You’re the only one who gets it Dean. That’s why I like being around you, even if it's just like this. I’m sorry if I’m like, cramping your style, or something. If that’s why you need space.”

Dean frowned. “It’s not that, Sam. I’ve just…I’ve been sorting through some stuff, okay? Feel like my head’s so full of shit, I can’t think straight.”

“Does this help?” Sam asked, could see the stars if he pressed his face against the window. Blind to them in their own backyard, too much light from the other houses.

“A little,” Dean admitted. “Someday it’ll be for real though. Me’n’you, bustin’ outta here. Make a B-line straight for the west coast, baby!” He laughed.

“You _really_ want to go to California?”

“I want to go anywhere that’s _not_ here," Dean assured him. "But you? You’re going to Stanford, Sammy.”

Sam shook his head. “I haven’t even finished high school yet, Dean. You act like I’ve already been accepted.”

“You will Sammy, I know you will. And then we’ll live in the cheap part of some big town where all the hippies and artists are. People drinking in the streets and dancing with fire as a hobby. Won’t feel like such a freak then will you?”

Sam laughed.

“It’ll all be different, you’ll see Sammy. It’ll be better.” Dean smiled wistfully as the highway rolled on and on. “It’ll be better.”

“Do I have to wait until then?” Sam asked quietly, his cheek rested against the window, cool against the night air.

“…for what?”

“For this.”

Dean tore his eyes off the road, glanced at his little brother nervously.

“Just, existing, like this,” Sam explained. “When you actually talk to me. When your head's not full of shit,” he joked.

Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “S’not always full of shit you know. Sometimes…sometimes it’s pretty clear. Sometimes it’s _really_ fucking clear. You know, what I should do. About things.”

“Is it like that now?”

Dim light of passing cars and the stars outside. Low thrum of the engine. The wheels turning. Sam stretched out in the seat beside him. Like he was born there, like he belonged. With him. Dean swallowed audibly. “Maybe.”

Decided they needed some music. Leaned over and turned on the radio to muddy his thoughts a little. Dean skipped over some classic songs and landed on a soft rock station. Lou Gramm filled the space between them, sang about wanting to know what love was. Soft and hypnotic. Dean left it on. Felt it filled some hole in him at the moment.

Sam laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Dean frowned.

“Nothing. I just thought you were a strictly hard rock guy, you know AC/DC only.”

“I can be romantic too Sammy, how do you think I get laid so much?”

“Whatever.” Sam rolled his eyes, stretched and settled into the seat, felt sleep creeping up on him. Oddly comfortable, in this car, with his brother.

“Hey man, don’t crap out on me this is a _good_ song!”

“Hmm,” Sam smiled, though his eyes stayed shut. “I’m listening.” He was always listening to Dean, what he said, and what he was trying to say. Hoped one day it wouldn't be so hard to figure out.

Sam woke up in the car, realized they were back at home. Rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and started to sit up. Body ached from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep in. About to call for Dean when he saw his brother sitting on the hood of the Impala, back to him. There was a faint glow emanating from his left hand. Dean was smoking.

Sam frowned, considered getting out of the car and chastising him when he saw Dean was also shaking. Pulled the cigarette away from his mouth. Buried his head in his other hand. Even through the steel of the Impala Sam could hear it, his strangled sob.

Sam shrank back into the seat. He knew, somehow, it was his fault.

Dean fell deeper into his own, sullen darkness, and he refused any more of his little brother’s attempts to reach out. Sam spent a majority of his time alone now. The house started to feel like another prison cell. No real freedom, just transferred from one state to another.

When he was in Douglas County Sam had nothing but time, time to think, time to sit and stew. It was a small mercy to him, that the last few weeks had buzzed by without much time for reflection. But now the clock began to slow down again. Now he began to feel the hole in his heart. Felt the clawing ache of everything he’d lost: his friends, his home, his family. He had time now to notice all of the little things that reminded him of that loss. The outdated wallpaper in the bathroom was like the wallpaper in his parent’s room. The ugly couch in the living room was like the pull out couch at his aunt's. Some of the neighborhood kids even reminded him of his friends back in Kansas. His friends who had probably forgotten about him and moved on, some sad story they told strangers.

It hurt. The worst kind of pain, folded inside of him and festering. He realized this while standing in front of a microwave, watching chicken nuggets cook. Things were supposed to be getting better, but somehow they felt worse.

He had never expected anything when he got out, a family or even a place to stay. But then Dean came back, said they were brothers. He said he wanted to take care of Sam. He said he wanted to be there for him too. And he had. He’d done everything he said. But Sam still felt empty.

The microwave beeped as Dean came back, shoved some beers in the fridge and muttered ‘hey’.

“Hey,” Sam replied. Noticed the bag of chips in the plastic gas station bag, other snacks. “Are you going out tonight?”

“Game’s on,” Dean said. Took out the chips, grabbed a beer and left everything else on the counter as he sat on the couch, turned on the tv without another word.

Sam peeked into the bag. Saw a cup of yogurt, some string cheese and a stick of beef jerky. Knew they were meant for him. Dean always bought something for him whenever he went out, wherever he went, but he couldn’t bear to give him a second glance or invite him to watch overpaid athletes tackle each other to the ground. Even if Sam said no. Wouldn’t even give him the chance to say no.

Sam sighed, removed the plate of nuggets from the microwave, left what Dean had bought at the gas station on the counter. He sat at the kitchen table while the sound of cheering fans and sports commentators droned on. Dean’s back to him, eating empty calories and drinking beer.

What had Sam expected? More nights like at the motel, pigging out and watching television together? More nights like before, riding in Dean’s car, talking about their future? Maybe those were anomalies, small punctuations of happiness. Sam remembered a pair of brothers that had lived next door to him in Kansas. They always fought, were in constant competition with each other. Called each other nasty names and drove their parents mad. They weren’t anything to each other like what Dean was to him. And he knew he should be grateful for that, for what he had.

But it wasn’t enough.

The crowd went wild, booing and screaming as one team was handed a penalty. Dean swore, tossed a chip at the screen.

Sitting like this pretending they were in separate rooms, Sam realized it was never going to be enough. When Dean had said they were going to be brothers he thought every night was going to be like that night in the motel. But that’s not how brothers acted. And he knew that.

Sam stared at the food on his plate. His stomach tied itself into a knot.

He was still in love with Dean. Wildly, jealously in love with his brother. That’s why he was so disappointed, because he thought being Dean’s brother would satisfy him. It didn’t.

Sam stood from the table and retreated to Dean’s room, which had now become his room (at Dean’s insistence). He shut the door and crawled under the covers. The tv roared, a goal scored from one team or the other. Sam curled into a ball and tried to disappear. Had never felt more like a tiny, stupid kid. Wept into a pillow, shoulders shaking like that night he saw Dean smoking on the Impala. For once he understood the craving for smoke and tar in your mouth. Wanted to burn something out of him so he never had to feel it again.

Heard a whistle, the tv again. Loud voices. Sam shut his eyes and longed for sleep. Didn’t want to be awake right now, not for a while. He started to drift off but then the door opened, Dean’s voice, soft and concerned.

“Sam?”

Whole body tensed. Shut his eyes and wished Dean would go away.

“What’s up kiddo, you didn’t eat anything.” But Dean didn’t go away, he invited himself in, sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you see what I got you? Not the greatest options at a gas station, I realize, but like, I thought if you needed _something_ …”

Sam was silent, curled up tighter.

“C’mon, Sam. It’s 8 o’clock. I _know_ you’re not asleep.”

“M’not hungry,” Sam muttered from beneath the covers.

A pause. “This is the third night in a row you haven’t eaten anything.”

Was about to deny this when he thought back over the week. Dean was right, he hadn’t been eating. Didn’t even realize he was doing it, just felt so awful he couldn’t force himself to digest.

“Are you eating at school?”

“ _Go away_ , Dean.”

“No, Sam. This is serious. You can’t starve yourself like this. The last time you did that…the last time.”

Mind jumped to Youth Services. Solitary. Tom. Desperate and afraid. Sam felt a hand on his shoulder through the blankets and jumped. Lashed out at his brother. Kicked and shouted.

“Go away! I said. _Go. Away_!”

Dean stood up and moved away from the bed to avoid Sam’s kick. Braying and jerking like a wild colt, like that little kid in the jail cell that trusted no one. Thought he would never see that kid again, that he had earned something with Sam.

“What do you care anyways?” Sam accused. Had kicked the covers off of himself. Lay on his back now, glaring at his brother, angry and spiteful. “You haven’t asked me how my day’s been in weeks! And now all of a sudden you’ve been keeping notes on my diet? Fuck you, Dean! If I don’t want to eat, that’s _my_ business and _not_ yours!”

Dean gaped, this wasn’t the little brother he knew. “What the hell is your problem, Sam? What do you want from me, huh? A _survey_ every time you come home? You want flowers and chocolates or something? What the fuck!”

“I want you to pretend like you give a shit!”

“I give a shit!” Dean scowled, approached Sam defensively, chest puffed out, muscles tense. “No one gives a shit more than I do!”

Sam lashed out, kicked at him again but Dean grabbed his ankles, pulled him forward on the bed.

“I drop you off for school. I pick you up. I make sure you have breakfast, dinner, whatever you want, Sam. I take care of you, okay? That’s my _job_.”

Sam sat up, pushed Dean, hard. Dean rocked back on his heel, and then stepped forward. Sam tried to hit him. Dean swatted his hands away. He tried again and this time Dean grabbed his wrists, held them away from him.

“What else do you want?” Dean demanded. “Huh? What else do you want!”

Sam continued to struggle, get his hands back from Dean but Dean held firm. “Let me go!”

“Only if you promise to stop punching me.”

“No! Fuck you!” Sam managed to get his legs back into the game, kicked at Dean’s stomach.

“Goddamnit,” Dean winced, but he still didn’t let go. Used his body weight to pin Sam to the bed, wrists above his head, legs straddled either side of him. “Stop it Sam, just stop it. I’m not trying to hurt you. Calm down!”

Dean pressed down on him, the weight of him, the heat. Sam’s head emptied, all his blood rushed south. He struggled but it just made it worse. Friction. Arousal. Panic. “I hate you!” he spat, but it was too desperate to hold any weight.

“No you don’t,” Dean insisted. Shifted on top of him. “No you don’t,” he said. Heavy, like the air suddenly. Shifted again and Sam gasped, realized Dean was rocking his hips against him, into him. Could feel his brother’s dick through the fabric of his jeans. “No you don’t, Sammy. No you don’t.”

Wrists were free now. Could feel his brother’s breath, stuttered and ragged, same as his. On the brink of something, he waited for the levee to break. But Dean hesitated, muscles locked, and Sam could feel his uncertainty. If Dean said no, Sam would go mad with his want. It had been dormant this whole time and he felt there was no going back. Since he first got in the car with Dean, they had been driving to this point.

“Please,” Sam mouthed. Choked on the sound, his throat swelled with emotion. Tilted head, parted lips. He wanted his brother to kiss him. Like they had in Douglas County. But this time a consummation of something deeper, darker. Something they couldn’t control.

They looked at each other. They knew what this was.

Then Dean kissed him. Chaste at first, like testing the water. Excruciatingly gentle with his kisses, he made Sam wild for more, for everything at once. Opened his mouth wide and felt Dean inside him, touching every corner, claiming him. Sam whimpered. Wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck and kissed him back furiously. Afraid that if they stopped for even a second Dean would realize what they were doing was wrong.

Their hips pressed closer together. The pressure on his cock, against his jeans, against his brother was enough to make Sam explode. Would have humped Dean till he came right there but Dean dug his fingers into his little brother’s hips. Slowed him down. Sam gave in, wrapped his legs around Dean and let him take control even though the pace was slow and agonizing, this feeling curled up hot and tight in his belly screaming for release.

They rocked together, enjoying the friction of each other’s bodies. Sam pulled at his brother's shirt, hungry for more, to be as close to Dean as possible. But Dean pushed his hands away, pulled his shirt back down.

“No Sammy, just like this. It’s not bad if it’s like this, okay?”

Too far gone to hear the shame, just clung to Dean. Could taste his sweat, feel his body, hear the bed creak beneath them. Sam imagined Dean really fucking him, legs spread, his brother’s cock buried inside him.

“You like that, Sammy?” Dean muttered, like he was imagining the same thing. 

“Dean!”

“S'what you do to me, Sammy. Christ. Can't think straight. You in the room. All I want. Hngh. All I want-"

“I want it!" Sam confessed, wild and desperate. "Dean, fuck. I want it!"

Could feel his brother tremble and thought, maybe that was it. But then Dean guided Sam's hand down to his own dick. "Do it," Dean said. But Sam didn't understand. "Finish," Dean coaxed. "Go ahead. Do it. Not the first time you've jacked off, right Sammy?"

Sam froze. Embarrassed. Being asked to touch himself while his brother watched. But even the warmth of his palm made his cock twitch. Didn't hesitate after that. Unzipped his jeans and grabbed his cock, jerking himself furiously. Eyes closed but then he peeked. Saw the hunger in Dean's eyes. And then he wanted him to see it. His cock swollen and red from Dean's body. Wanted Dean to see what he could have. Him. Panting. Fucking his own hand and drifting to a familiar scenario that always got him off: Dean in that guard's uniform fucking him from behind.

"Hngh, god-Dean!"

"That's right baby, show it to me. C'mon."

It didn't take much. Sam came clinging to his brother. Came easily with Dean's voice whispered in his ear, hand wrapped around his own dick. Shuddered with the force of it. Cum stained his shirt. Dean's old shirt.

Dean kissed him, still in the waves of his orgasm. "What-" Sam asked. Meant what Dean needed but he only got out the first word.

"Just stay still," Dean shushed. Kissed his neck, his collarbone. Sam felt Dean's teeth graze him, the skin above his heart where he was tattooed. He felt Dean kiss, suck, pinch. At the same time he knew Dean was jerking himself off, hand slipped into his pants. Couldn't see it. Just felt the flexing of Dean's muscles, the rhythm of his body. He held his breath as Dean kissed his tattoo. Knew it would leave a mark. And when Dean finally came, grunted and moaned, Sam let out his breath. Felt himself shaking along with his brother.

Dean collapsed. Smothered Sam with his weight but Sam didn’t protest. Liked his warmth, his pressure, a reminder that this was real. Laid on Dean’s bed breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. Let waves of pleasure wash over him.

“Dean,” he sighed after a moment, ran his fingers through his brother’s hair. Had an impossibly big smile on his face. Too aroused to think this moment could turn sour. Too naïve to think his impulse would have lasting consequences.

He said his brother’s name again, tried to kiss him but Dean pushed him away.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Dean warned from the twisted pit in his stomach. Stood up, brushing himself off like Sam had been dirty. “Clean yourself up,” Dean demanded. “Make sure you eat something. Then I think you should go bed. I've got work, you've got school.”

Sam's smiled flickered. Couldn't read his brother all of a sudden, couldn't understand why he was so cold. “…Dean?”

But Dean left him without another word. Turned his back on Sam lying spread eagle on his bed. Turned his back on what they did.

Sam didn't panic until he heard the jingle of keys. “What are you doing?!” he shouted, rushed down the hallway to see Dean putting on his green jacket, keys in his fingers.

“Going out.”

It was like being slapped in the face.

“Dean!” Sam practically screamed. “You can’t leave. We just, we had _sex_!”

His older brother stopped in front of the door, narrowed his eyes. “You call that sex?”

Sam flushed. Dumb little kid with cum drying in his pants.

“That wasn’t sex, Sam. Grow up.” He tried to open the door but Sam threw himself against it. Couldn't say why but he knew if Dean left that would be the end of it, the end of them. This living thing between them aborted and left to die. But only if he opened that door.

“No!” Sam cried. “You can’t do this, Dean! You can’t just do that and-and- you can’t! You can’t! Please!” Tears sprung to his eyes, again. He hated himself, felt like such a baby. But this was killing him. Head spinning, wondered if he had been wrong about everything from the beginning. 

“Please,” Sam begged. 

Dean frowned at his little brother's tears. “You ever want to be a man?” he said. “Then stop crying.”

The door slammed in his face. Sam thought he heard the roar of the Impala’s engines but it was thunderclouds overhead, loud and deafening. When he wasn't looking, the storm had finally arrived.


	15. Chapter 15

The feeling of Dean’s tongue in his mouth lasted for hours. The hickey on his neck lasted for days. Two days. That’s how long it had been since Dean disappeared, had driven off in the Impala without another word. Sam had called him a hundred times, left voicemail after voicemail. Demanding, insistent. Then angry, pleading, begging.

He went to school the next morning, tried to pretend like everything was fine. Couldn’t focus; got chastised by all the teachers. Longest day of his life.

Come Saturday morning, there was still no sign of his brother.

Sam rolled out of bed and stood in front of the mirror, pulling back the collar of his shirt (baggy, oversized, technically Dean’s) to examine the bruise from his brother’s mouth. Black and blue mark right above the tattoo on his chest. “You’re such a stupid little kid,” he whispered to the reverse image of himself. “What did you think was going to happen?” He touched the tender skin, drew his fingertips down to the inked circle. “So stupid.”

Couldn’t even remember why he had gotten the tattoo. Trying to impress Dean? Make their connection visible? As bad as drawing ‘Sam hearts Dean’ on himself. Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid. And Dean hadn’t even liked it! That look on his face after he’d revealed it, like Sam had kicked him in the balls again. Made him regret it before the ink was even dry. Made him feel dirty.

And now there was a hickey on his neck the size of Rhode Island.

_Slut._

The tiniest whisper in the back of his head, a voice he thought he’d heard the last of.

 _Once a cocksucker, always a cocksucker. Isn’t that right?_ It said. And he could picture it perfectly, Gordon Walker’s sneer. A smile that cut across his face, cut across Sam. He was back in Douglas County, in a hole, in the dark, but no matter how far away he was, those twisted things he had said to Sam stayed with him. Haunted him. A part of him would never be rid of Douglas County.

_Liked that didn’t you, Carrie. Like it when they hold you down and force you? Gets you all riled up._

Sam felt his cheeks burn, turning his head so he didn’t have to look at himself in the mirror anymore.

No, it wasn’t like that, what Dean had done. Ashamed at how much the memory ignited something in his gut. Dean’s hands on his wrists, pinning him down. The weight of him, the strength. But Dean wasn’t taking anything Sam didn’t want to give. And he wouldn’t. _Dean wouldn’t._

_You want him to though, don’t you? Hold you down and fuck you. Force you to gag on it, just like Tom._

Nononono! Shutup! Not like Tom! It’s not anything like that! Sam shut his eyes, feeling tears. He’d fought Tom every inch of the way. He _hated_ him. Had drawn blood because he hated him.

_A real man would never have opened his mouth though. Would have died first. But you couldn’t resist could you? Faggot. Just had to get a taste. Now look at you. Out of prison for a few weeks and you’re already somebody’s little bitch._

No! Sam slammed his fist into the mirror. It shook but it didn’t’ break. Not even a crack. Impotent rage. Swept everything from the counter of the sink onto the floor and stormed out of the bathroom. Into Dean’s room.

Fuck Dean.

Grabbed the closest thing to him and chucked it across the room. Model car bounced off the wall, spare pieces flew off and embed themselves into the carpet. Car upturned, belly exposed.

Fuck Dean.

Galvanized by his anger, Sam ran to the record player, dumping over the bin of albums. Turned to the posters and ripped them off the wall too. Flipped over the mattress. _That_ mattress where Dean had tried to fuck him. Or rub their dicks together. Or whatever the hell Dean _didn’t think happened_.

Strangled sob. Choked on his anger.

Yes it did happen! Yes it was fucked up! But he didn’t deserve to be cast away afterwards like a used a condom like a- like an orphan!

Punched the mattress. Once, twice, threw himself at it in a rage. Kicked and screamed. Panted. Kicked and screamed until he collapsed. Tears streaming down his cheeks again, hot and wet.

Finally drained but his anger was a film that covered some deeper sadness and when it dissolved, Sam fell in. Small, and helpless, and pathetic, and wrong. His love for Dean was a bitter ache in his chest. Sam wanted to reach out and touch his brother, know he was there. Wanted to stop and listen and hear him breathing. Wanted to smell him from the other room. Wanted to go back to normal and pretend none of this had happened. Even if Dean was drunk and reeked of smoke and they never talked, Sam wanted him back. Even if they never kissed or touched again, brothers they way most people understood them, it would be enough he told himself. As long as Dean was back.

But Dean was gone. And there was nothing he could do but sit, and wait.

Ten o’clock on a Saturday night and the phone rang. John Winchester blinked the sleep out of his eyes and reached for the bulky receiver that rattled on its base. His personal cell phone still sat by his side, silent for weeks. “Yeah?” he grunted.

Cheery voice on the other end. “Mister Winchester, we have a phone call from your son. Would you like us to transfer you?”

John mentally sighed. What did Dean fuck up now? “Go ahead,” he said, reluctant. The line clicked and he heard his son’s voice, but not the one he’d expected. “Sam?”

“Hi,” Sam said quietly. Father had to strain in order to hear him. “I um, I’m sorry to bother you so late…”

“It’s not a problem,” John said, glad to hear from his younger son. “How are you and Dean holding up?”

 Silence. “Well. That’s what I wanted to ask about. Have you um, talked to Dean, lately?”

John frowned. “Haven’t heard a peep. Don’t expect to either.”

“Oh.”

“Why? Isn’t he there with you?”

“Well. No. Not exactly.”

“Not _exactly_?”

“No,” Sam confirmed. “He’s not here. I don’t know where he’s been since Thursday.”

“ _What!_?” Felt his heart jump in his chest. Too much excitement for this old man. Coughed and sputtered, held the phone away from his face until he could breathe again.

“It’s okay, honestly! It’s not like I’m starving or anything.” Sam explained, apologetic. “I’m fine. It’s Dean I’m worried about.”

John rubbed at his temples. “Let me guess; there was a fight and he left.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Something like that.”

“Then he’s fine,” John dismissed. “I’m sorry Sam, I thought he would clean up his act for you. Dean has a _tendency_ to disappear when there’s a fight. Or when he gets frustrated. Or hell because the stars didn’t align correctly.”

“Oh.”

“But he’ll come back, Sam. Give it time. He’ll come back.”

“…okay.”

“In the meantime. Go have some fun,” John suggested. “Crash at a friend’s house. Like I said, he’ll turn up eventually.”

“Maybe. I don’t want him to worry.”

John laughed. “Don’t waste your breath praying over your brother, Sam. Here, I’ll tell you what. You know how to drive?”

“Yeah,” Sam confirmed. “I’ve got a permit. Driver’s ed.”

“Then take my truck. There’s a spare key in the kitchen drawer, to the right of the fridge. Spend a night up here. Not the most glamorous thing in the world but it sure beats sitting alone in an empty house waiting on Dean. Trust me.”

Sam hesitated. “There’s supposed to be someone else in the car with me, if I drive.”

“You’ve been to hell and back, son, you can drive a damn car. Course I’d understand if you stay. Me and your brother aren’t on the best of terms. Showing up here would probably piss him off. Make him think twice, though, about disappearing again.” Let Sam think about it for a beat.

“Okay,” Sam announced. “I’ll come.”

John smiled, hung up the phone. Wiped away the line Dean had drawn in the sand.

Two hours on I-55 and Sam stood in the center of John’s room at the Vitas hospice clutching the straps of his backpack, trying to figure out why he was there.

The invitation had been encouraging, anything sounded better than sitting at home, alone. But now he regretted it. Because John was worse than before. Not sure what it was exactly, maybe the redness around his eyes. Or the tired drop of his shoulders. The way his body sank into the bed like his bones couldn’t support him anymore. The way he coughed intermittently, sputtered, hacked. Maybe it was this whole building, disinfected from top to bottom but if you breathed deep you could still smell it, at the end: newly carved stone and overturned earth.

It was clear John was dying.

Sam’s stomach pinched him tight. He hadn’t thought about Dean’s father (didn’t yet think of John as his father) for weeks. Dean never spoke of him or even referred to him, some part of himself he’d packed up and shoved aside, to be forgotten. Like the gun in his drawer.

“How was the drive?” John asked, unaware of Sam’s desire to turn around and run. “Truck can be a bit much to handle at times but I figure you’re not the run-of-the-mill fifteen year old. Tall for your age, actually.”

Sam forced himself to smile. “It was fine.” Throat tight. Stood in place like there were weights holding him down.

“Why don’t you sit,” John suggested.

Sam moved robotically towards the couch. Dumped his bag and sat stiffly on the cushions. Figured he should say something. Sat there for about a minute trying to think of something other than Dean. “How-how are you feeling?” He finally stumbled. Didn’t know how he was going to survive the night like this.

But John wasn’t bothered by his gracelessness. “What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette,” he mused. “You would think they’d allow an old man a few last earthly pleasures, but no.” Coughed. Shifted in the bed. His knees under the blanket made rolling hills, rising and falling. “Bad habit anyways,” John concluded. “So don’t let me find out you’ve picked it up.”

Sam shook his head adamantly. Recalled the pack of Red & Whites crumbled in the front seat of John’s truck. No, not him. But Dean had, John must know that. Hereditary; passed on the need for tar in his mouth and soot in his blood. And now Dean was dependent. Sam hadn’t seen his brother without seven dollars worth of comfort glued to his hands since their last visit here. Because of John.

“It’s not the first time Dean’s picked up and left. Used to run off all the time when he was younger,” John recalled. If there was a switch in Sam’s reception of him, he didn’t notice. “Scared me near half to death the first time. Found him the next day at a friend’s house. Yelled ‘til I went hoarse but it didn’t do any good. Finally at sixteen he ran off, what I started to think was for good. When he came back from Kansas that was the first time I’d heard from him in years.”

Sam frowned. “Years?”

John softened, sympathetic. “Don’t worry. He won’t do that to you. Couple of days tops, then he’ll show up and pretend like nothing’s wrong.”

Sam lowered his eyes. “Do you know why he ran?”

John was silent. “I don’t. Boy’s just a loose cannon,” he dismissed but Sam didn’t think that was fair. The picture being painted by his father wasn’t like the brother he knew. Something missing from this equation.

John continued. “One time he was gone for a week and I found out he got this dumbass tattoo from a kid the next town over. _Thirteen_. Right here, on his chest.” John pointed. Sam tugged at his hoodie self-consciously, felt the mark on his neck burning. “Told me I had to stay away now, or else.”

There was some noise in the hallway outside. A group of nurses discussing procedures and patients, muffled. They passed.

“But your brother’s not a bad kid,” John redacted. “He’s rough around the edges, maybe. Needs his ass kicked every once a while but I think he means well. That’s no excuse for _this_ , though. I want to make that clear.”

“I know,” Sam said. Could barely stand the way John talked about his brother. Felt some need to defend him, since Dean wasn’t here to do it himself. “And I know he’s not a bad kid. I think, actually, he’s really good. Better than he realizes. Better than most people give him _credit_ for.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, rubbed the back of his neck, laid his palm where he knew the bruise was. “I think he’s strong. And he’s kind. And sometimes I look up to him. No, I _always_ look up to him. Even when he does things like this. Cause he’s never let me down, not when it mattered. And I know he’ll be back, I don’t need you to tell me that. I just worry, is all. He tries to take care of me but I think sometimes he needs someone to take care of him.”

John was silent for a beat, surprised by Sam’s sudden loyalist dictum. “I’m glad you two get along so great,” he finally said. But he looked at Sam differently after that.

Sam worried given himself away. Something tasted different in the air and the hickey on his neck was hot to his touch.

“So. Tell me about you and Dean,” John asked.

Sam had fallen asleep on the couch, turned over pulling the blue blanket across him tighter. The homework he’d been working on lay open on the floor by his backpack. Algebra. A set of equations, solve for x. Sam knew how to do that, could do it with his eyes closed. But for some reason his brain stalled this time around. Kept trying to plug in different factors and solve for why Dean had run. Was he tired of Sam, or just disgusted by him? Did have to do with his father’s failing health? With Mary? No matter how he worked it, x remained unknown.

Then at three in the morning John’s cellphone rang. The small piece of plastic he kept by his bedside in case anyone still thought he was relevant vibrated and played through twenty seconds of some classic rock song before John flipped it open.

It was Dean. Even from the couch, he could hear his brother’s voice screaming through the receiver. Sam held his breath.

“Well what do you expect the boy to do Dean, you left him for damn near three days.” John replied when there was a break in Dean’s fury.

Sam couldn’t hear any reply after that. Only John. But he listened carefully to the one-sided conversation.

“I’m used to your bullshit Dean, but your younger brother? Straight out of juvenile detention?”

A pause. Dean’s reply.

“He’s old enough to make his own decisions. Nobody forced him here.”

Another break.

“No. He’s asleep. No. You can’t.”

Sam sat up on the couch. _Yes he can_ , he thought, _I’m right here_.

But John dismissed them both. “You want to talk to your brother again, you come and get him.” He hung up. “Your brother’s on his way,” John informed him. “Best get some sleep. I think it’ll be an early morning.”

Sam deflated back into the couch. Pulled the blanket up to his chin and stared at the ceiling. Tried to work out the algebra problems in his head.

Headlights reflected against the garage like a pair of twin moons. Dean shut off the car and pocketed his keys. Sat in the dark, steeling himself. If he was lucky Sam would still be asleep, could slip inside and crash on the couch. Pretend like everything was okay for a few hours before he had to pony up.

Dean laid his head against the steering wheel and groaned. Thought of looking Sam in the eye again knowing how much he’d royally fucked up gave him no pleasure, but he didn’t have a choice.

Out of the car. Noticed John’s truck was gone. Hmm. Fumbled with his keys. Opened the door, slowly. No lights on, okay good. Listened for his kid brother. Silence. Shut the door behind him carefully and picked his way through the dark. Down the hallway just to check on Sam before he crashed, instinctive. Felt so wrong these last few days without him, driving him to school, getting him something to eat. Called the house on a payphone a few times just to hear him breathing. _Sorry Sammy_ , he’d wanted to say. _Sorry you got the raw end in this deal_. But he didn’t. He hung up and kept driving.

Door to Sam’s room opened about two inches and then it wouldn’t budge. Not wide enough to peek in. Dean hesitated, stared through the slim opening but couldn’t see anything. Thought about leaving it but something tickled in his gut. Leaned his shoulder against the door and carefully applied pressure but it wouldn’t give.

Dean frowned. Didn’t like this. Fuck it, broke his code of silence. “Hey, Sammy. You in there?” Rapped his knuckles against the door softly. Nothing. Little louder now. “Sam? Sam you awake?” Met with silence so Dean leaned into the door again and shoved as hard as he could. It gave way. Dean flipped on the lights.

His room had been trashed. Albums scattered across the floor, posters torn off the walls. His mattress overturned, had been blocking the door. Flipped over the mattress afraid of what he would find, his brother’s body in blood. But there was just a broken model car, crushed under the weight. Dean walked back up the hall, trying to make sense of it all. Turned on the lights in the living room and discovered the note next to the phone, written in Sam’s neat cursive: _Went to Chicago to see John_. There was a heart drawn on it with Sam’s name. Dean clenched the note in his fist. His father. Sam. _Alone_. He picked up the receiver and pounded his father’s number into the keys. Shook as the other end rang.

God he was so wrong to leave, so stupid! Shouldn’t have gotten in that car. Shouldn’t have run. It was Sam for chrissakes! No matter what was going on in his head, no matter what happened, he had a responsibility to take care of that kid. And if he didn’t, if he unwittingly put Sam in the exact same situation-“You fucker. You fucker!” Dean growled as he heard John pick up. “What did I tell you about _staying away_ from him?!”

John was quiet for a beat, then gave him this tired answer like Dean was a child throwing a tantrum. _Well what did he expect Sam to do?_

“It’s none of your business,” Dean insisted through gritted teeth. Fuck. Did _not_ want his dad involved in this. It touched something too close.

“He’s _my_ responsibility, John!" _Mine._

 _Nobody forced him here_ , John replied.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean demanded, half out of his mind with panic and bad memories. “Where the fuck is my brother? I want to talk to my brother!”

But his father had hung up.

Dean swore and slammed the receiver down. Got back in the car and drove recklessly to Chicago.

Sam had heard his brother’s car as it pulled into the parking lot at 6 am. Packed up his homework and waited for Dean. Palms started to sweat. Dean burst into the room like the world outside was on fire. Sam stood up, backpack in hand, expecting a litany of swear words aimed in his direction. Puffed out his chest, prepared. Dean’s fists were clenched tight, like his jaw. Brows knit together in a sharp V. 

“Get in the car,” Dean growled.

When Sam didn't move Dean turn to glare at him. Silent threat, to do as he was told. “Fuck you!” Sam spat, but he slung the backpack over his shoulder and trotted out of the room obediently.

Dean shut the door behind him. “Did you touch him?"

“No," John said. "But somebody did. I saw the bruise on your brother’s neck.”

Dean couldn’t breathe for a second. “So?”

“Did _you_ do something to your brother?”

Dean’s face twisted. Lips quivered. “Like father like son,” he said quietly.

John turned his head away. “Don’t you think that I have enough shame to deal with, Dean? Don’t you think _you’re_ enough?”

Dean shuddered. “I am _exactly_ what you deserve,” he said. “All the places I’ve been and all the bad stuff I’ve seen, and you still might be the biggest monster out there. But I am _not_ gonna spend the rest of my life carrying your _shit._ Not anymore. Cause now I have Sam. My brother, who thinks _I’m_ a good guy. And he _keeps_ saying it. Sam, who looks at me sometimes like I’m the friggin’ sun. I love him. And I will be there until he stops wanting it. Me’n him and _nobody_ else.

“But you?” Dean continued, stuck his hands in pockets and narrowed his eyes. “You’re gonna die here, old man. In this room. By yourself. While your two sons are playing hanky panky with each other. And _that’s_ what you deserve.”

He turned his back on his father. Left him behind.

It was a crisp morning, clean and cool. Sound of construction in the distance and the usual inner-city hum of cars passing by. The parking lot was nearly empty this early in the morning. Dean’s boots echoed hollowly as he passed John’s car, grateful to see Sam already sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. Got out his keys, opened the door and sat inside. Took a deep breath.

“Are we just going to leave it?”

Dean glanced at his little brother, Sam’s head turned away staring at that truck. Dean looked at it too, could see the rust starting to form under the belly. Remembered John giving him shit about Baby.

“Yup.”

Leaned forward and started the car. This was his family now, right here, the only things that mattered.

Sam buckled his seat belt as the car started. Shifted, vinyl squeaked. Dean looked to him, sighed through his nose. Knew he should say something. Maybe something wise. Maybe something clever, or funny. Maybe something to assure Sam that it was different. He was different, his time away. Head was on straight now. Instead of looking back, he was determined to look forward. He would stop running. Whatever Sam wanted of him, he wouldn’t run.

“Can we just be brothers again?” Sam asked suddenly. Still didn’t look at him, his voice quiet.

Dean stared at his hands gripping the leather-bound steering wheel tight. Sure, this was for the best. Had fucked up so bad, should feel grateful Sam wasn’t demanding a ticket back to Kansas.

Cleared his throat. “I know a diner up the street. Waffles. Pancakes. Sound good?”

Sam nodded.

“Then let's go,” Dean said, as he shifted into drive.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Three days later, the phone rang. The house had been sold to a bachelor in his late forties. It was good news for Dean, whose skin had started to itch. Stuck in that house for too long. But Sam was less enthusiastic. Uprooting their lives would be chaotic. And his relationship with Dean was still volatile.

His brother still smoked. He refused to mention his father. He refused to acknowledge last weekend.

And Sam played dumb too. You couldn’t kiss, you couldn’t _fuck_ , and just be brothers after that. So they had to pretend like nothing ever happened.

Sam went back in time and rewrote every little moment he had even _looked_ at Dean. But that was warping history. His relationship with Dean was so wrapped up in blood, and tears, and sweat, and lust, that sterilizing one, threatened to ruin it all. That moment on the bed threatened to ruin it all. But he wouldn’t take that back for the world.

The way they were headed, it had to be all or nothing. And if he couldn’t have it all, Sam worried for their future.

But Dean barreled into the future without hesitation. He kept talking about California like it was the Promised Land; the weather was perfect, the women were beautiful, and the rivers flowed with scotch. “Well not literally,” Dean amended. “But you know what I mean, Sammy. Everything’s better there. Everything.” Sam tried to believe his brother, thought of sunny beaches and blonde women, knowing you could pack up and run across the country, but you always carried your baggage.

This was the beginning-of-the-end of their stay in Illinois.

To make the move easier, Dean insisted on selling what wouldn’t fit in the car. “If it don’t fit, then it don’t ship,” he said. That meant twelve years of cluttered memories had to be sorted, collated, and marked with a price tag.

John’s room was the first to go. Dean sold the bed, the nightstands, the bureau, and the wardrobe to a couple across town. Bargain price. Dean said good riddance and flashed his little brother the wad of cash he’d scored. “Pizza on me tonight.” But Sam felt guilty watching the movers drag their father’s things out of the house. Thought it was disrespectful to bury the living.

After John’s room, they moved everything from the basement to the living room and started dividing things into piles: what they would sell, what they would keep, what they would donate. Once something was in the sell pile, it was Sam’s job to place it into the appropriate box marked one, five, or ten dollars.

Sam felt strange collating Dean’s childhood according to worth; old Christmas ornaments segregated from worn clothing, from family gifts long forgotten. But it didn’t bother Dean. He had compartmentalized his life since he was a child. Opening boxes to see what was inside had become a fun new game.

“Eww look at this old rag, I thought I threw this out years ago!” Dean announced. Held up a purple shirt with the decal of a dog, or was it a llama?

Sam looked up from the stack of books he’d been sorting. Scanning the titles to see if there was anything he wanted to keep before tossing them in the dollar bin. “I like it,” he said. “I like the color.”

“This is a _girl’s_ shirt,” Dean explained to his little brother. Though Sam wasn’t sure what his logic was. It was obviously too big to be a girl’s shirt. “And it’s a girl’s color.”

“It’s _purple_.”

“Right? That’s a girl’s color. My aunt got me this for Christmas one year. I don’t know what the hell she was thinking. I mean who wears a purple dog shirt?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I still think it’s nice. I like the color. I like the dog.”

Dean had tossed the shirt in his face. “Then you can have it. No one in their right mind would buy that. And donating it is just cruel.”

Sam pulled the shirt off his head, indignant until he saw Dean grinning down at him, corners of his eyes wrinkled. Peaceful. Genuine. Sam smiled back.

And then the phone rang.

Dean jumped towards it. Waved his hand at the numbered boxes as he picked up the receiver. “Hey Sam, why don’t you bring that shit outside, make it look nice. You’re good at all of that Martha Stewart crap-Hello?”

Sam sighed, Dean’s attention dragged elsewhere. Folded his new shirt. Put it off to the side. Picked up two boxes and brought them out to the garage.

It was a garage sale. They hadn’t marked the occasion with a sign yet but the couch in the driveway and the tables organized with their belongings was an easy giveaway. Neighbors had already started picking through the mess. Sam added to it: dumped the books and the Christmas ornaments onto a table like the others.

That’s when a young blonde woman approached him. Big blue eyes and pink glossy lips. “Do you live here?” she asked. Smiled at him.

Sam stood up straight, caught off-guard by the pretty girl’s attention. “Yeah,” he squeaked.

“I used to live across the street,” she explained, pointed to a slate-gray house kitty-corner from where they stood. “And there’s someone I knew that used to live here. I heard maybe they still did?”

Sam’s mouth went dry before she even said it.

“Dean Winchester.”

Alarm bells went off in the back of Sam’s mind. _Of course_ she wanted to see Dean. With her blue eyes, her curly blonde hair, and her pink, full lips that would drive Dean crazy. ‘Hey Sammy why don’t you go organize boxes while I fuck this girl from behind? Just be a sec.’ Sam shuddered at the thought.

“ _I’m his brother_ ,” he said, like telling someone to go fuck off.

But she didn’t see him as a threat, just some little fifteen year old kid. “Oh,” she said politely. “I didn’t know Dean had a brother.”

“Well. He does.”

They stared at each other for a beat. Could tell she was trying to figure out what the fuck his problem was.

“I’m Sarah,” she introduced. “Dean and I went out once, had a lot of fun.”

When she blushed that’s when Sam knew this was _the_ Sarah. The neighbor-I-lost-my-v-card-to, Sarah. The my-first-fuck, Sarah. Come back from the past to reunite with his brother and fucking _ruin his life_. Sam knew the second Dean saw her they’d start dry humping on the first available surface. After all, what better way to forget your little brother than burying yourself balls deep in a pretty not-related-to-you girl?

Logically, Sam shouldn’t care one way or the other. As the kid brother he was supposed to wrinkle his nose and say “ew gross” before making himself scarce so Dean could get laid. But logically, purple wasn’t anymore a girl’s color than a boy’s color and Dean still hated it. Il-logically, Sam went crazy at the thought of Sarah anywhere near his brother.

“He’s not here!” Sam blurted out. “He um, he went cross-country. Far, far away. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Probably not for a while. Or ever. Sorry!”

Sarah narrowed her eyes, mentally polygraphing his story. Sam started to sweat.

“Oh…kay? Then maybe I should leave my number, or something.”

“We don’t have phones,” Sam continued. “We don’t even _believe_ in phones.”

His lie spiked off the chart and Sarah was about to call him out on his bullshit when Dean chose that exact moment to bust into the garage. “Heya Sammy, you flirtin’ with the customers?”

The new girl swooped in immediately, talons extended. “Hi Dean, it’s Sarah. Remember me? I used to live across the street from you. I remember you used to sit outside and drink your dad’s beer. A little young for that, I think.”

Dean considered her for a second, and then his face lit up. “Yeah well, so were you.”

Sam wanted to scream. This was it. They were gonna fuck right here, on this table, in the garage, in front of everybody. “ _Dean_ ,” Sam hissed, tried to recapture his brother’s attention.

But Dean ignored him. “And you used to wear that freaking _bandana_ as a top in the summers. You were definitely too young for _that_.”

“Dean.”

Sarah smiled. “Not anymore,” she practically _cooed_.

“DEAN!”

The conversation came to a sudden halt. Sarah and Dean both looked down at him with a frown. Sam faltered under the spotlight.

“Uh. We still have, um, stuff to do. You know. Important stuff. _Inside_.”

Dean quirked his head like Sam had said something in French. “Hey’d you meet my little brother Sammy?” He asked. Change in subject. Wrapped an arm around Sam and pulled him close, tousling his hair like they were best buds. “You’ll have to excuse his shitty manners though. Raised by wolves as a kid. Obviously he’s still _maladjusted_.”

Sam flushed, desperately pushed the hair out of his eyes. He was gonna punch Dean for that.

“He’s cute,” Sarah said, and Sam made a note to punch Dean for that too.

“Get off me!” he spat. Tore himself from his brother’s grip. How dare Dean use him like a prop in front his former fuck. They had barely been within five feet of each other since _that day_. What made him think he could just do that, touch him like that, and in front of _her_!

“S’matter, Sammy? Get all tongue-tied in front of a pretty girl? Thought you were supposed to tell me something.”

Sam glared, felt himself shaking. “I’m gonna go,” he warned.

Dean shrugged. “Fine,” he said. Dug into his back pocket and emerged with his car keys dangling. Shoved them in Sam’s face. “Why don’t you get lost for an hour?”

Sam stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the offer in front of him. He should be giddy, even light-headed at the chance to drive the Impala by himself. But the context was all wrong. Dean was trying to get rid of him so he could fuck Sarah. The thought hit him like a ton of bricks.

“C’mon Sammy, don’t you want ‘em?” Dean asked. Dangled the keys again. They danced and clattered like chimes.

Sam ripped the keys from his brother’s hand. Gripped them tight. Squeezed. Felt like someone was squeezing him too. Could barely breathe.

“Like an hour,” Dean repeated. “That’s it. If it gets dark and you’re not back I’m gonna find you and kick your ass. You hear me?”

At least it was a quick fuck, not that it hurt any less. Dean was pushing him out to fulfill another need. And he should get used to not caring where his brother’s dick went. Someday he wouldn’t have to remind himself of that. “Yeah, whatever,” Sam huffed. But he turned to Sarah before he left. He wasn't going to be the only hurting over this. “Want to know what Dean said about you? He said your first time together you gave it up like a real _pro."_

The shock on her face was worth it. Sam stormed off. Felt like a horrible person, but he didn’t give a damn. Couldn't help the feeling that Dean belonged to him, every damn inch.

Sam marched across the yard where the Impala was parked. Put the keys in her ignition and drove off without another word.

On the way out of the cul-de-sac Sam passed a blue pickup he didn’t recognize.

Cornfields, long rows of houses, and the highways that connected them. It had all started to look the same to Bobby Singer as he pulled his blue 1968 Ford into the driveway of the white-wash single-family home with a ‘sold’ sign in front. He checked the address again. Squinted with his bad eyes at the number scrawled down across a lined piece of paper. Back up again at the little metal numbers screwed to the side of the house. They were always too damn small.

That’s when he spotted Dean just inside the open garage. He was talking to a young woman. She looked upset, slapped him and stormed off down the road.

Bobby knew he had the right place.

“Am I _interrupting_ something?” He grunted as his car pulled up alongside the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. “Didn’t drive for six hours to get caught up with you play actin’ Casanova.”

Dean snapped his attention up to the old grizzled man and his old grizzled truck. _Still such a kid himself_ , Bobby thought.

“Just another satisfied customer,” Dean said with a smirk, absently rubbing the offended cheek.

“Whatever you say, son. Sam here?” Bobby asked, wary. Looked past Dean, back at the house. Not sure what he would do seeing him free, with Dean.

“I sent him on some errands. I wanted this to be a surprise.”

“That girl part of your surprise?”

“No,” Dean laughed. “But I’m…I’m probably gonna pay for that later. So,” he said quickly. “You got it?”

“Course I got it,” Bobby huffed, motioned his thumb towards the back of the pickup. “Didn’t come all this way for no social call.”

“Great!” Dean didn’t wait for Bobby to get out. He retreated behind the truck and lowered the tailgate. Climbed right in. Excited. There was a gray bin tucked between a spare muffler and some rusted pipes. It was labeled Douglas County. Dean nodded, rubbed his hands together and yanked it forward.

“Woulda had it to you sooner but it’s all red tape down there,” Bobby explained as Dean crawled out of the truck, dragging the bin forward. “Not like it was before when you could sneak something out while no one’s lookin’. Cause now _everyone’s_ lookin’. “

“Are you gonna talk my ear off or are you gonna help me with this?” Dean asked. He was panting. Fine sheen of sweat across his brow. There were a lot of goddamn books.

Bobby’s mustache twitched back and forth as he thought about it. “You got beer?” he asked.

“Course,” Dean said.

“Then I’ll help.”

Bobby rolled up his sleeves and they pulled the bin from the back of the truck. Brought it inside. Dumped it in Dean’s room.

Dean went to the kitchen and opened a pair of beers for them both. Last two in the fridge. _Hiss. Pop_. Offered it to Bobby as thanks. Old man accepted it with a grunt.

They stood in the kitchen and looked around at the mess.

“You movin’?” Bobby asked.

“California.”

“What’s the occasion?”

Dean hesitated. “My dad died,” he lied. “Cancer.”

Bobby nodded slowly. “Sorry to hear that, son.”

Dean said nothing. Stared at the stain in the middle of the carpet that he could he never get up, no matter how hard he scrubbed. “You know I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said when I first started in Douglas County. About your dad.” Bobby had seen the anger balled up in him tight. Had seen what Dean was just starting to understand.

“An’ here I thought I was just talkin’ to myself,” Bobby mused. Drank his beer.

“I’ve been angry at my dad for a long time," Dean explained. "When I first heard that he was sick, and how bad it was, I thought _are you kidding me_? All the things he’s done to me, to my family, and he just gets to lie down and go peacefully? It wasn’t enough. I wanted to see him punished.”

"Hmm," was Bobby reply. Meant he understood. “And now?”

“I don’t know. I’m ready to be done with him. I’m ready to move on.”

“Can you live with that? Even though angels didn't descend from the sky and smite his ass?”

Dean smirked. “I’ve seen good people die young, and sonsabitches live rich n’ easy. If there is a God, Bobby, he’s got one sick sense of humor. But honestly I‘m startin’ to think we’re alone in this. And that’s just fine with me because…I don’t think I care too much what the big man upstairs thinks. Not anymore. Not when I’ve got someone real who depends on me. And as long as he still thinks I’m good, then I’ll risk burning in hell.”

“Well that’s fine and all, son,” Bobby grunted. “But your daddy dyin’s just the start. See all that stuff he poisoned you with is still in your system. Swimming in your blood ‘n’ your head. Now you’ve got to figure how to get it out, or else you’re still lettin’ it do damage. Course I ain’t your gotdamn therapist,” he insisted. “You want to git somethin’ off your chest, it’s gonna cost you more’n a beer. But know this. Just cause someone shat on you a few years back, don’t mean you still stink.”

Dean scoffed. Wondered how Bobby could cut to the heart of a problem so succinctly (and disgustingly). He appreciated that Bobby took a second to listen. Filled this space in him that his father never had.

They both took a swig of beer, signaling the end of that conversation. Changed to something new.

“I’ll tell you what,” Bobby said. “After all that bull with Crowley. I thought I’d seen the last of your sorry hide.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Dean smirked.

“Mean it,” Bobby asserted. “The police fell on that youth center like maggots on a corpse. An’ when they took Crowley out in a pair of irons, I had to slap myself. Didn’t think it was real. After that, half the damn prison was arrested. They dragged _everyone’s_ name through the mud, including yours. Painted you as the villain right alongside Alastair.”

Dean frowned.

“And maybe I believed it at first. Hell, I was just hearin’ about those drugs for the first time! But that’s when I went to Crowley's trial and I heard the tape you’d sent to the police. We all did.” Bobby shook his head. “I know you don’t think much of yourself, son. But that was just about the craziest, _bravest_ , gotdamn thing I’d ever heard. Now there’s new management, new rules. It’s a different place, better. In part, thanks to you.”

Dean exhaled sharply, like someone had punched him in the gut. 

“Thing I could never figure out was _how_. How he got to you, how he made you sign that deal with him in the first place. Until you show up at my door at ass-o-clock in the morning asking me for help. Asking me to get you _Sam Wesson’s_ things. I never knew what happened to that boy,” Bobby continued. “He just dropped off the radar. Then I get this idea to call his lawyer and the last _she_ heard of him he got into a black Chevy Impala and-“

“He’s my brother,” Dean interrupted. Drummed his fingers against the glass bottle, impatient. “He’s family, Bobby.”

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?”

Dean’s stomach dropped. Bobby’s face, hard and unyielding. The implication was clear. He saw Dean and Sam that day, after he tore Tom down. Saw him with blood on his face and Sam on his lips. Saw him for the real monster that he was. Maybe the only time someone had gotten a full glimpse.

Dean swallowed, but he didn’t challenge it. Might as well have been a confession.

“So I figure this makes us even,” Bobby said. “You go to California, with Sam. And I go back to Kansas without all those damn books. Anything else…well that’s none of my business. ”

Dean blinked furiously, like someone had thrown holy water on him. Surprised to find he didn’t burn. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Okay. Thank you, Bobby. I mean. For everything.”

Bobby raised his hand, didn’t want to hear it. “Don’t believe what they tell you about getting’ older, either, Dean. That you’ll be wiser or somethin’. None of that’s true. Older I get, less I know for sure. So just be sure this is all worth it to you, son. Just be sure."

He took a long draught and pulled the beer bottle away from his face. Shook it. It was empty. And like that everything was over. “Well, best be going,” Bobby concluded. “Got another 6 hours of road in front of me.”

Dean swept up the empty bottles, followed his friend to the door. “If there’s anything you need man, anything at all.”

Bobby stopped by the door. “Send some of that California sunshine my way huh?”

Dean swallowed. “Sure thing.”

 

Sam went back home with a bag of groceries for their empty fridge and a pack of beer. The beer had been a joke. Some hole in the wall gas station open twenty four hours and the guy behind the counter looked like he’d been up for about that long. Sam put the case of beer on the counter along with a pack of bubblegum. Funny, you know. Scraggly kid like him trying to get away with some dumb shit. But the guy didn’t say anything and Sam forked over the cash feeling a little confused, a little thrilled. Even now he glanced at the driver’s seat guiltily.

Pulled up to the house about one hour later like Dean had demanded. Expected Sarah stumble outside with her panties around her ankles. Instead he saw Bobby Singer closing the tailgate to his truck.

Sam broke out into a cold sweat as he pulled over and got out of the car. “Bobby?”

Bobby remembered the Chevy Impala. Kid inside took him a few seconds without the orange shirt and gray sweats. “Well I’ll be damned,” he wondered with a low whistle. “I think I see it now. Like a shorter, scrawnier version of him huh?” Bobby evaluated him for a second longer. “Hell you might even end up taller.”

Sam rubbed at the AC/DC logo across his chest self-consciously. “What are you doing here?”

“Not here to arrest you,” Bobby grunted. Made his way to the front of the truck. “Just on my way out.”

Sam followed him with the bag of groceries balanced against his hip, six pack of beer wrapped in about three plastic bags. Stood outside the pickup as Bobby climbed into the driver’s seat and closed the door.

“How'd you know I was-Dean. How'd you know we were here?” Sam asked through the open window.

“Cause your brother showed up at my door about a week ago," Bobby explained. "Practically begged me to pick up something at the Youth Center he says he forgot. Says he can't go back in himself for reasons he won't say. So I did. Maybe fer reasons I can't say either."

Sam frowned. Had spent the last hour infuriated with his brother and now. What? He didn’t know what to think. _  
_

“Ain't for him really, for you. So you might want to go and see.” Bobby said, nodded his head towards the house. "Go on, git.”

Sam nodded but didn't move, not yet.

Bobby started up the truck. “Be careful now,” he warned. Sam strained to hear him. “He thinks he’s looking after you. But that kid needs someone lookin’ out for him too. Big responsibility. Hope you’re ready for it, son.” The engine roared and sputtered. Some more sage words of advice but Sam couldn’t hear it over the noise. Then Bobby pulled away from the curb, did a u-turn in the middle of the road, and drove off leaving Sam with his hands full of groceries and his mind a clouded fog.

Eventually he had to go back inside.

Dean stood by an open window in the kitchen, glanced over his shoulder as he came in. “Hey, Sammy. You scratch my car?”

Sam put the bags and Dean's keys on the counter. “I saw Bobby,” he finally said. Studied his brother. 

“Oh yeah?”

“He said he brought you something.”

“Hmm.”

Sam waited for further explanation as his brother put the beer in the fridge, pulled out some pasta and sauce that was going to be tonight’s dinner. But Dean was silent.

"Dean!" Sam snapped. "What's going on? Why was Bobby here? What did you tell him about us? ...where's Sarah?"

“Who?” Dean scoffed at that last question. “Jesus, Sammy, she’s long gone!”

Sam raised a brow, suspicious.

“What? You don’t believe me go see for yourself!”

Sam stared down the long hall towards Dean's room, doorway illuminated by a frame of light. He didn’t appreciate any of this secretiveness, but he wanted to know why Bobby was here. So he finally went down the hall and opened the door.

When his little brother shouted his name, Dean smiled.

Dean found Sam on the floor, kneeling over the open bin. The books Jessica had sent to him over the first year of his stay in Douglas County Youth Services, alphabetized, piled high off to the side. The red notebook Dean recognized with a guilty twinge. Sam was looking through his old family photos. The ones he thought he’d never see again.

Looked up at his big brother like seeing him for the first time. “ _Dean_.”

“Hey,” Dean said, gently cut him off. “None of that okay? That’s yours Sam. You should have had it a long time ago.” He touched Sam’s head lightly and retreated to the bed. Sat with his back to him, giving his brother some space to reminisce. “And it’s not an apology either. I still have to make up for that.”

Sam turned away, swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Didn’t want his brother to see. “You made me think you were in here fucking Sarah, you jerk,” he laughed. Any previous resentment, gone. He would always forgive Dean too easily.

“Don’t have much faith in me do you Sammy?”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. "I know I’m not supposed to say thank you. But…I’m grateful, really.”

Dean nodded. “Are we…okay?” he asked. “I mean, you’re not seriously hung up about that Sarah chick, right? She practically ran straight home after what you said. Can’t believe you even remembered that. I was just spouting off dumb shit.”

Sam hunched forward guiltily. “You made such a big deal about her.”

“I _did not_.”

“Yeah you did!” Sam insisted. “And you were being a _dick_ about it too. About your first time with her. Just because, you know, I hadn't fucked anyone yet.”

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, okay. I guess I was a dick," he agreed. 

Sam ran his thumb over the spiral of his old diary. Slowly lowered that part of his past back into the bin. “I mean I'm not a total blushing virgin. It's not like I haven’t done _anything at all_. Just…not with girls.”

Pupils dilated. Realized what Sam meant. Tried to be casual. “Oh?” Dean prompted, 

Sam felt his brother’s gaze on the back of his neck. Laser-focused, trying to pry him open. He took a deep breath and exhaled his story. “I had this friend, Brady. His parents were out of town and the cousin that usually came over to watch him skipped out for a date with her boyfriend. I came over. We got bored pretty quickly. We did some truth or dare, just to be dumb, and I dared him to open up this bottle of Jack from his dad’s liquor cabinet. He dared me to drink it.” Sam skimmed over some details. “It was nothing. It was before Jess.”

Dean’s brain jerked, trying to fill in the missing parts. “So what happened. You kissed?”

Sam shrugged. Noncommittal.

“You did more.”

“We just fooled around,” Sam said quickly. “We kept daring each other to do stuff, and I’d never had anything more than a beer-but it doesn’t count anyways. Brady he, he made it pretty clear that it didn’t count. That I didn’t count. I got the message after that, you know. That I was a mistake.”

Dean frowned as Sam stood up, picked up the lid and sealed up the bin. His past in a box. Closed off. Like everything else in this house. “I’m gonna start dinner,” he declared, and left Dean alone with the gnawing hole in his gut.

It stung, like he’d been slapped. And Dean knew he deserved it. He stood, followed Sam into the kitchen. His little brother was filling a pot with water and Dean reached over him to turn off the faucet.

“Dean what are you-“

“You count,” Dean said.

“…what?” Water sloshed back and forth, Sam shifting his weight.

“I said you _count_ ,” he repeated.

Sam pulled away without a word. Put the pot on the stove and turned on the gas. _Click. Click. Click_. Flame ignited. 

They both stood there, waiting for something.

“I fucked up. I know,” Dean continued. “I freaked, Sam. I thought…maybe I’d hurt you.”

Sam swirled the water with a wooden spoon, just for something to do. “Is this how this is going to go? You finally decided to, like, say something."

"C'mon, Sam-"

"You did," Sam interrupted. "When you walked out that door...I’ve already been hurt a lot of different ways, Dean. I keep getting surprised by how many more there are.”

Dean clenched his fists. Maybe he didn’t have the courage for this after all. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam scoffed. Stared into the lukewarm water.

“Did you hear me? I'm like, trying to apologize over here.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” Sam scowled. “That it’s fine? That everything’s okay? Sure. I can say that. But you know it’s not true.” Small bubbles from the bottom of the pot rose to the surface. Not quite a boil. “We had sex, Dean. We had _sex!_ ”

Dean exhaled. There, Sam had said it.

“Well...was I at least better than Brady?”

Sam stared at him, in shock.

“No that’s not fair," Dean mused. "I shouldn’t compare myself to a thirteen year old kid, of course I’m better.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Sam hissed, chucked the wooden spoon at his brother's head. “You think this is a _joke!?_ ”

“Kind of,” Dean admitted casually as the spoon clattered to the floor. “Sometimes this feels like a cruel, cosmic joke. And sometimes it feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Of course maybe that’s a little funny too.”

Sam was strongly tempted to throw the pot of water in his brother’s face. Maybe not boiling, but it'd hurt like a bitch.

“But I’ll tell you what I am dead serious about for the first time I can ever remember." No more build up. Grabbed Sam and kissed him.

Sam gasped into Dean's mouth. Pushed himself away, eyes wide and wild. “What the fuck!” he demanded. Lashed out, punched Dean in the upper arm. Then again in the chest.

“Damnit, Sam,” Dean winced. Let himself be hit.

“ _That_ was for earlier,” Sam said pointedly. “And for Sarah.”

“Her again?”

"What, Dean? You think you can just...do something like that and, and it'd be okay? After _everything?"_

Dean shrugged "...yeah?"

“You're such a jerk,” he cried as he pushed Dean against the counter to kiss him.

Dean let his little brother push and grab and take.Tongue and teeth. Sam forgot everything until his head banged against the cabinet. Realized they'd flipped, Dean had hoisted him effortlessly onto the counter, wide hands around his waist, pushing at the fabric of his shorts.

They kissed until the water in the pot boiled over, hissing as it evaporated into the gas flames. They stared and laughed. Dean reached over, turned off the stove. Sam pulled the pot back, let it, and the moment, cool.

"I don't understand," Sam said quietly.

"Don't think too much," Dean said. Smiled and rubbed lightly at Sam’s thighs. He looked happy. When was the last time Sam had seen that? “This time next week we’ll be in California,” Dean reminded him. “You and me Sam. Starting over.”

“I’m excited,” Sam said. For the first time he meant it.

Dean beamed.

And then the phone rang.

His brother rolled his eyes, made as if to kiss Sam again but Sam kicked him away playfully. Dean left him on the counter, picked up the phone and Sam sank against the cabinets with a sigh. If this was a dream, he hoped no one would wake him.

“Oh,” Dean said into the receiver. Sam squinted in the dim light of the kitchen. Even from here he could see the color suddenly draining from his brother’s face. Left it ashen and pale. “When? Okay. Okay. Yes. I’ll tell him.” When Dean hung up, it look like he’d seen a ghost.

And Sam didn’t have to ask. He knew John was gone.

 


	17. Chapter 17

A shadow. Dark. Tall. Immense. Falling across the sky, the land, the whole world. Dean’s world.

Dean hid from the monster that cast the shadow, the way all kids hide. Under the covers, shrinking into the mattress. Impossibly small and helpless. If only he were smaller, Dean thought, he could disappear completely. And then it would never find him. Nobody would find him. He would be so good at hiding he’d even disappear from himself.

Then a noise. Loud and booming, thunder that said his name. The rattling of a doorknob. The creaking of a doorjamb.

It was here!

Dean shrank into himself, kept trying to disappear.

It was here and it knew his name, was in his room. His room was supposed to be a safe place. But for Dean it was a trap. The monster always knew where to find him here.

So Dean ran. He ran and he ran until he found another place to hide.

From this distance, the monster looked small. But his shadow was big. Dean was afraid the shadow could hurt him too. It made him remember the monster. It made him remember its claws and its teeth, and the way it had hurt him. He ran from the shadow too. But the shadow stretched across the entire earth, and it followed Dean wherever he went.

The monster hadn’t hurt him for a very long time but Dean kept running, kept cowering because he was still very scared.

After a while, he forgot what it was like before he had tried to run, before the monster. But he was very good at running now; he was very good at trying to disappear.

Dean woke up in a cold sweat. Same nightmare that he had always had jerked him into consciousness. Didn't remember the details of the dream but it left him panicked and terrified. Could never quite shake it either. With his eyes open or shut, he couldn’t catch a fucking break.

Dean kicked off his covers and sat up on the sleeping bag laid out on the floor. Wiped the sweat from his brow. Measured his breathing. Nearly burst out of his skin when he heard a voice from above him.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Dean’s childhood bed loomed up beside him. On top of the mattress, the whites of Sam’s eyes stared down at him.

“Jesus,” Dean breathed, shakily trying to ground himself in reality. It was late, pitch dark. The only illumination was a faint yellow light from the street lamps outside, bleeding through the bedroom window. He had a hard time confirming he was awake.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Sam said, propping himself up on an elbow. He tilted his head and watched Dean sweat. “Bad dream?”

Dean didn’t answer. He stood and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. The pot that had over-boiled hours before still sat on the stove, a box of unopened pasta and red sauce sat beside it. Like time had stopped after the call. Dean was starving but the words “your father’s dead” still rang in his head and canceled out everything else.

He poured tap water into a glass and took several heavy gulps. _It’ll get better_ , he told himself, filled up the glass and drank it again. Took a deep breath and went back to Sam.

Sam was sitting up in his bed, arms wrapped around his knees. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Peachy,” Dean dismissed. He sat down on the sleeping bag and the nest of blankets that doubled as his bed.

Sam watched him, and Dean felt naked, all of a sudden. Expected to perform this ritual of grief in front his little brother. Dean hadn’t shed a tear over John and he didn’t intend to. John had been officially dead to him since he pulled Sam out of that hospital, unofficially long before that. He thought maybe he would still feel sad when it finally happened. Or happy. Or something.

Dean only felt numb.

“You know you’re not in this alone, right?” Sam asked.

Dean scoffed. “You want to hold hands and _cry about it_?”

“Don’t,” Sam chided. “Don’t brush me off, Dean. You _don’t_ have to go through this alone. In fact _you’re_ the only one who thinks _you have to_.”

Dean shook his head, slowly. “That’s the problem. I’m not even grieving, Sam. I’m…I’m _relieved_.”

There was a long pause. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” Dean laughed. He looked up at his little brother, Sam’s face scrunched up in doubt. “You were lucky you didn’t know him, Sammy. Not until he was bedridden. Not until he couldn’t raise a finger. He must have seemed harmless.”

Sam was quiet.

“You think I’m a monster, don’t you?” Dean asked.

“No!” Sam insisted. “You’re not a monster, Dean. I just…I don’t understand.”

“You had a good a family,” Dean said, like that's all the explanation that was needed.

“I _have_ a good family,” Sam insisted, smiled tightly at his brother.

Dean got off the floor and sat on the bed next to Sam. “Isn’t it better like this, anyways?” he asked, gently brushed some hair back behind Sam’s ear. “Just the two of us. Feels like it’s always been that anyways. And now we’re free, Sam. We can leave.”

“I guess,” Sam conceded, leaned into his brother’s touch. “I still feel bad though, about you and John.”

“I don’t.”

Sam didn’t believe him. “Even if he’s gone you still have all those bad memories. I know things like that don’t go away as quickly as you’d like them to. Sometimes I still think about prison, and Tom. I push it out of my mind and then I just wake up from the nightmares.”

“What does this have to do with Tom?” Dean asked, defensive.

“Nothing!” Sam insisted. “But I know you were scared of him, Dean. The gun, the tattoo. I’m not stupid. I can put things together.”

Dean pulled back, nervous.

“But you want to know what?” Sam continued. “I…don’t care about him either. Not really. I'm sorry he died. He was your father, mine too. But all I really care about is _you_ , Dean. And I want _you_ to be okay.” Bit his lip with concern. “Eventually.” It felt like an awful thing to admit. Dean felt like family, but not John. John had given him up, Dean had rescued him. His whole world was Dean. That's all he cared about, sometimes even more than himself. He didn't know how to explain that, but he felt it was important for Dean to know.

Dean smiled, looked at his little brother fondly. “I am okay,” he lied, and leaned in to kiss Sam.

Sam let him, kissed back gently. Dean touched his face, ran his hand down Sam’s back. His little brother shuddered, and Dean gently guided Sam to lean back on to the bed. Sam sighed and Dean slipped his hand up under Sam’s shirt. He brushed across Sam’s nipples, across his chest, and then draped his hand across Sam’s back. He pulled his brother towards him until they were touching, side-by-side.

Sam’s brows pulled together. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

Dean wasn’t sure. Didn’t even know what he was doing. There were pins and needles in his gut. But he needed to be close to Sam, and this was the only way he knew how to ask for it. Dean nodded, kissed Sam again. Slipped his hand under Sam’s shorts, slid a finger into the cleft of Sam’s ass.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam groaned softly, shut his eyes, resting his head against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean held him closer, massaged gently at Sam’s entrance. Sam’s hips rocked into him. He licked his lips and slid his own hand between Dean’s legs. Wrapped his fingers around his brother. But Dean wasn’t responsive.

He shifted in his brother’s arms, and that’s when he noticed the tear on Dean’s face, slowly falling down his cheek. “Dean?”

Dean clutched his brother about the waist and buried his head in to the crook of Sam’s neck. He tried to swallow his emotions. Gasped.  Grit his teeth. Anger and sorrow washed over him like a flood. His whole body shook.

Sam laid still and let Dean weep. He never said a word.

John was cremated, put into an urn and tucked into the back of the car next to Dean’s record collection and Sam’s books.

John had a will. Dean found it tucked into an old photo book in the basement. It had been made four years ago. It left everything to Sam. Dean had to laugh. He was going to give everything to Sam anyways.

They finished selling the rest of Dean’s furniture, and now the house was empty. So they packed up the rest of their belongings, and Dean packed Sam into the passenger seat.

They were ready go. Oh. But one last thing.

“Hurry up!” Sam complained. The car was overloaded, or just poorly arranged. There was a backpack of Dean’s crap precariously dangling over Sam’s head and he had to keep pushing it back, eventually just sat there like that, with his arm above his head. He sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to six hours of sitting like _this_.

Dean sighed in relief as he pissed onto the side of their house. Urine absorbed into the freshly upturned earth. Tucked himself back into his jeans and looked at his work with satisfaction.

Good luck to the next motherfucker that wanted to live here.

They drove two hours south to Greenville where their mother was buried, a memorial erected by some uncle Dean didn’t really know. Dean grabbed a shovel and John’s dog tags from the back of the Impala. Sam watched Dean break open the earth, toss in the tags, and cover it over again.

When they got back to the car, Sam realized they had not buried the urn.

They finally started their road trip to California. Sam had left school after John’s death. He calculated he would miss a few months before he picked it up again next year. It would be hard, but, he gambled he could catch up and not have to take any summer school ( _better not_ , Dean threatened).

They didn’t drive in a straight line. They took their time instead, made plenty of pit stops. They stopped at old towns Dean had been to.  They stopped at all the local diners to try the “cuisine”. They stopped at every state park, even though that one time they accidentally drove on to a golf courses and they had to be chased out by angry Sunday dads in polo shirts and khaki pants.

They also went to every stupid attraction they could find. They saw the world’s largest ball of twine, The Cockroach Hall of Fame, The World’s Largest Santa Claus, The Hair Museum, The Roswell UFO Museum, and they even paid a $1 to see THE THING the mysterious mystery of the desert (which ended up being a mummified mother and child, creepy).

All the kitsch just blurred together in the beginning, but the farther away they got from Illinois, the more Dean relaxed. He remembered the world’s largest ball of twine because they kissed beside it. Dean made some painful jokes about big balls but that lead to a heavy make out session in the car for twenty minutes. They got caught by the suburban mom that had parked beside them and they laughed about it for miles.

Dean jerked him off behind the Cockroach Hall of Fame, which sounds disgusting but Dean’s hands felt pretty damn good. He blew Dean in the car on the way to The World’s Largest Santa Claus. Dean came on his face after The Hair Museum. And in the middle of the Roswell Museum Dean kept trying to finger him, tell him that aliens were trying to “probe” him. Sam elbowed him in the gut. They got some looks. Afterwards he let Dean shove two fingers in his ass and Sam came so hard the world went a little blurry.

They didn’t try anything after the mysterious mystery of the desert but it was probably about the dumbest thing they saw (or at least the biggest let down after ten miles of advertising THE THING). After seeing THE THING they drove to Kingsman, Arizona and stayed overnight, just miles outside of California.

The finish line loomed near.

Dean checked them in to the Tri-State Inn located on the only main road in town. The manager took one look at them and stuck them in the back. There was construction out in their lonely patch of desert, or at least there had been. An abandoned bull dozer sat rotting, half full of desert dirt. Even the electrical lines outside their room hung haphazardly. A strong wind would blow and cause wires to cross, sparks flying.

“Romantic,” Sam joked, sitting on the edge of green floral-print bed. He pulled back the wrapper of a Snickers and took a bite.

“The manager asked me if I wanted to pay by the hour,” Dean grinned lecherously. Threw their room key on their Formica table and fell back on the bed beside Sam. “I told him, nah. Tonight, I want my money’s worth.”

He reached out and pinched Sam’s side. His little brother smirked and batted his hand away with the chocolate bar.

“We’re almost there, California. How does it feel?” Sam asked.

Dean folded his arms behind his head and sighed. “Dunno. Tell you when we get there, I guess.”

“You seem happier,” Sam observed.

“Eh. Maybe it’s something in the air,” Dean dismissed. But he smiled. “Hey I tell you what, how about a couple of beers? I feel like celebrating.”

Sam took another bite of the Snickers. “You’re the only person that celebrates with _cheap_ beer,” he complained.

“C’mon Sammy, live a little!” Dean teased, bounced off the bed and made a quick trip back to the Impala. Popped the trunk and dug into the cooler. Dean caught sight of his father’s urn and paused. With his spare hand he touched the cool lid.

“You know,” he said to himself. “I think tonight’s the night.” Then he screwed the top off, stuck his hand inside and pulled out a condom and a sample packet of lube. He slipped them into his pocket, and screwed the lid back on.

“I would say I hope you’re rolling over in your grave right now, but you can’t even do that, can you?”

Dean smirked, shut the trunk and went back inside the motel room.

He was greeted by the mellow guitar and the clear voice of Robert Plant. He knew the song instantly; Led Zeppelin’s _Going to California_. Dean stood in the doorway and watched Sam squatting in front of a cheap transistor radio, trying to adjust to the best frequency. He smiled up at Dean.

“I heard this and thought of you,” he said. “Of us.”

Dean put the beers on the table, forgetting about them instantly. “C’mere,” he said urgently while Robert Plant wondered if tomorrow could ever follow today.

Sam stood up and dusted off his hand-me-down jeans. He glanced at the beers on the table and the mist in Dean’s eyes. He smiled, and Dean kissed him. Not light and chaste, but deep and grateful.

Sam stepped back, lips parted, curious. “Dean?”

“You taste like Snickers,” Dean observed, smacked his lips together comically. Sam rolled his eyes but Dean kept him close, ran his hand up and down his brother’s arm. “We…could have avoided some headaches if I’d just kissed you back at Trail’s End, huh?” Dean asked. Their first proper room together outside of Kansas. The first of many.

“Would that be before or after you told me I was your brother?” Sam smirked.

Dean smiled. It flickered. His grip on his brother tightened. “Is _this_ right, Sam?”

Sam hesitated. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But it’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

Dean closed his eyes and Sam’s hand slipped under his shirt. He pulled Sam closer.

“I don’t know what this is, Sammy. I think maybe I should _be_ better than this, or somehow I should _know_ better. But I don’t. And I’m not. I’m put together the wrong way. That’s the truth.”

Sam pulled back. “No, Dean, don’t say that-“

“No, listen,” Dean continued. “Cause you’re _not_ put together the wrong way, Sammy. And I know I keep calling you that, like you’re a kid, and you are- _Jesus_ look how skinny are you-but you’re smart too, Sam. Smart enough, I think, to know what you want. I thought I had to protect you from everybody, including me. But I don’t. You know what you want. And if that’s good enough for you, then that’s good enough for me.”

Sam’s chest swelled with pride. It meant everything that his brother recognized his needs and his wants. Legitimate. Not a frivolous child.

“I _do know_ ,” Sam said. “I _know_ what I want, Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sam leaned in, brushed their lips together. Then he wrapped his arms around his brother’s head and pulled him into a kiss. Soft. Tender. And Dean melted into his little brother’s touch. Eyes closed. Chased after Sam’s lips with his own.

Fingers in Dean’s hair and Dean slowly lowered them both to the bed. Sam hooked a leg around his brother. Couldn’t help bucking his hips into Dean as Dean touched him. Cheek. Neck. The line of his back. Made Sam shudder, goosebumps racing across his skin.

And Dean fucked back into him. Pressure of their dicks rubbing together through the fabric of their jeans. Like their first, sloppy, frantic time together but without the guilt, without the fear of Dean leaving him.

“Fuck,” Dean panted, grinding into Sam. Bed creaking, like they were already fucking.

Sam was impatient for it; felt he had waited long enough. He reached down and ripped off Dean’s shirt. Dean blinked in surprise and Sam kissed his neck, his chest. Pressed his mouth against Dean’s tattoo. Once a symbol of Dean’s fear, it was now a mark that bound them together. Two brothers and matching tattoos. Indistinguishable except for the teeth marks Sam left imprinted on the skin.

Dean pushed him back with a possessive growl. Pulled Sam’s shirt off as well and immediately dragged his tongue down’s Sam abdomen. Lingered on the small line of hair that led below the waistband of his jeans. He looked up, caught Sam’s hungry gaze. His little brother licked his lips and nodded.

Dean hastily undid Sam’s belt. Pushed down his jeans, peeled back his underwear until he could see his little brother’s soft pink cock lying across his belly. Swollen. Aroused.

Dean exhaled sharply and Sam’s cock twitched under his gaze, eager to be touched. He teased Sam at first, kissed the head and drew the tip of his tongue from the head down to the base. Just the edge of his tongue, barely touching. Sam moaned in protest, tried to push Dean’s head down, or his hips up, desperate for some kind of friction.

“Uh-uh,” Dean chastised. “You’ve got to be a good boy, Sammy. Wait for what I give you.”

Sam huffed in frustration and Dean laughed. Gave the kid a break, wrapped his lips around Sam’s dick and took all of Sam into his mouth. Yeah, that got a good reaction.

Dean sucked his little brother’s cock. Hummed some Van Halen tune as he bobbed up and down. He paid attention to Sam’s body, the way his hips bucked helplessly when Dean did something right. Figured out pretty quickly how turn his brother into a whimpering mess.

But he had to be careful; Dean had more in mind than just sucking off his baby brother on a grimy motel bed.

Dean kissed the tip of his brother’s cock, apologetically, pulled away from it. Stroked Sam with his hand and put his lips on Sam’s thigh now. Traced kisses down to the tight ring of muscle under his brother’s balls. He licked at Sam’s ass and heard him gasp.

“Gonna open you up baby boy,” Dean explained. “Gotta relax for me.”

Sam sighed, nodded silently. Raised his hips and gave Dean better access.

“There we go,” Dean smiled.

He spread Sam’s cheeks and gave his brother’s tight ass saliva-slicked kisses. He licked at Sam until his entrance was red and quivering under the attention, glistening from Dean’s spit. Dean licked at Sam’s ass again. Once. Twice. Then he slid his tongue inside.

Sam choked, surprised. Dean felt his brother’s ass tighten and relax. Then Dean fucked his brother with his tongue.

Sam gripped the sheets, arched his back. No offense to his little brother, but he sounded a lot like a girl when he did that.

Dean fucked his ass, nose pressed against Sam’s taint, under his balls, still jerking at Sam’s cock.

He pulled back after a few minutes breathing heavily. Admired his work, Sam’s ass wet and loose. Dean tested how loose. Slicked a finger with saliva and pressed it against Sam’s hole. It went in up to the knuckle, easy.

Sam’s breath hitched.

“Relax,” Dean reminded him. He removed his finger and reached for the lube in his back pocket. It was from some cheap sample pack he picked up at a gas station. You know. In case. It was called Motion Lotion in sour apple green. Dean ripped open the package with his teeth and squirted a bit on his finger. Tasted that and the sweet tang of Sam’s ass. He shrugged. Eh, not bad.

Dean turned his attention back on Sam, used more of the lube and slicked his finger. Pushed it all the way inside Sam. His little brother sighed, head back, eyes closed.

Dean curled his finger, just slightly, stroking Sam inside. Chicks always loved a finger up their ass, even if they didn’t want him to fuck them. Dean knew it was supposed to be different for guys, somehow. Better, maybe. Dean curled his finger again and watched Sam curiously.

Sam’s eyes fluttered, his mouth opened. A soft moan escaped. Dean smiled. It wasn’t the first Sam had a finger up his ass but the last time was in the car, cramped, didn’t really get to give Sam the attention he deserved.

“You like that?” he asked, repeated the action and tried to go a little deeper.

Sam groaned.

“How about one more?” Dean prompted.

 “Mhhmm,” Sam agreed.

More sour apple lube, placed two fingers at the entrance of Sam’s ass and pushed gently. Sam’s muscles contracted and relaxed, let Dean enter but the fit was noticeably tighter.

“There you go,” Dean encouraged. “Fuck, you’re doing so good, Sammy.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam whimpered.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, gonna make it good for you okay? Just relax, trust me. We do this nice and slow.”

“But I want you!” Sam blurted out. Flushed cheeks, wet lips.

Jolt went down Dean’s spine. His dick crying painfully, still imprisoned in his jeans. He looked up at his brother slowly. Sam’s eyes hooded and full of lust. “Oh yeah?”

Sam nodded, bit his lip. Dean pushed his fingers all the way inside.

“Can’t be impatient for my cock, Sammy,” he chided, his own dick aching. “This is your first, proper time getting fucked and I-well like I said I want my money’s worth don’t I?”

He curled his fingers again to get Sam to shut up. Then he put his mouth against Sam’s ass and licked. Worked his fingers, spreading them inside his brother. He went slowly, opening him up while Sam moaned helplessly.

Sam was ready. Finally. Dean stood up and hastily undid his belt. He stroked his cock when it was free and looked hungrily at Sam’s ass. He pulled the condom from the back pocket his jeans, kicked them off. Tore the condom out of the packet and slid it over his cock.

Dean stroked his dick, condom slicked with lube. He leaned over and kissed Sam. They swapped saliva. Sam tasted himself. And maybe a little bit of sour apple.

“Ready?” Dean asked. “I’ll be slow. If it’s too much, just say, we don’t have to-“

“Hurry up already,” Sam huffed. Raised his hips and waited.

Dean smiled, positioned his dick against Sam’s ass and slowly pushed himself inside. Sam inhaled sharply. Mouth open, eyes closed. Dean slid his cock in further, felt Sam’s asshole clench and relax, clench and relax.

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay,” Dean said, balls deep inside of his brother. “Fuck.” His head felt light, and his earlier control was quickly slipping. Hips pushed forward instinctively. Every inch of him alive, electric. “Sammy.”

“Just a minute,” Sam said. “Just let me, just a minute. Fuck.”

Dean stilled, let Sam adjust to Dean being inside him. “You’re so tight,” he teased. “Gonna have to fuck you open. Have you loose for me, ready. Whenever I want.” Brushed some hair out of Sam’s face, kissed his cheek.

“ _Dean_.”

Dean slid his arms under his brother and held him. Brushed their lips together. Hot breath against his skin. Dean rocked his hips into Sam, slow but steady pressure. His little brother moaned softly and hooked his legs around Dean.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Hn. Yeah.”

Permission to continue, Dean drew out slowly, Sam’s ass clenching, pulling him back in. Dean’s hips moving rhythmically, Sam hot and tight around him, shuddering, pleading. Dean swallowed hard. Focused on Sam, only Sam: taut muscles under his fingertips, shallow breaths. The world shrank, Dean’s thoughts emptied out. There was nothing but this moment: teeth and skin and sheets and the wires outside crossing and crackling like the energy that sparked and rippled through them. Nothing but Sam, Sam, Sam. Connected at the lips, at the hips, sharing each other’s bodies.

“ _God_ , Sammy,” Dean groaned because the sacred and the profane had all become one. There were no more gods or demons, just his brother’s soft lips, the nails digging into his back. And maybe that’s all there ever was since the dawn of time, people fucking. That’s how they came up with the divine, buried inside of each other. No guilt, no punishment and shame, only Dean’s dirty prayers buried into his brother’s sweat-slicked skin.

“Sammy. Oh-Sammy. Fuck. God-Fuck!”

“Dean! _Dean_! Please!”

Built up, close to release. Hand on Sam’s cock. Fucking into his brother. Bed groaned alongside them. And then Sam stiffened. Threw his head back, his body shaking under him. Could feel the tremors, ass clenching around his dick. Sent Dean over the edge and he came, face buried against his little brother’s neck, clutching the sheets because the world moved under him.

Dean came. Collapsed, untangling himself from Sam. His body was still pulsing and thrumming. Spent. Closed his eyes and listened to his own breathing, slowly aware of another body besides his. Sam. Opened his eyes again to see his brother watching him. Dean’s chest constricted, suddenly. A burst of warmth in his bones, but it wasn’t lust. Slower and more excruciating than that.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam whispered, like it hurt to say his brother’s name.

And Dean understood. He pulled his Sam towards him-could say that now, that Sam was his-and kissed him, possessive. “I know,” he murmured, space between their lips. “I know.”

Sundown. They were finally able to enjoy those beers. A little warm now, but that had never stopped Dean before.

They drank while late night black-and-white reruns played on an old television set. Neither of them was watching, absorbed in their own thoughts. They lay on the bed together, though, still casually touching. Legs pressed together, hands on their bodies, still connected.

Sam stretched out in his underwear and the shirt Dean had just been wearing. He got bored of pretending to watch television. He turned to look at his brother instead, the light flickering across his face.

He was obvious about it and Dean caught him after a few seconds.

“What?” he asked with a suspicious raise of his brows.

“Nothing,” Sam smiled.

“Ugh. You better not look at me with like friggin’ heart eyes all the times,” Dean warned, belched to finalize his point.

Sam rolled his eyes, tried to be sour about it but he was smiling too hard. He swallowed another mouthful of warm beer. There were more in the car but neither of them had wanted to leave the room, like it would break some kind of spell. He turned his head back towards the television but the images faded in and out of focus. His mind wandered back to Greenville. He wondered if he could finally ask.

“Hey,” Sam said after a moment. "Dean?"

“Hmm.”

Sam shifted, turned his body towards his brother. “Why didn’t you bury John at Greenville? You just buried his tags.”

Dean was silent for a moment. “He didn’t deserve to be buried there,” he answered.

Sam didn’t question that. “Are you ever gonna bury him?”

“I already did,” Dean said.

Sam stared, waiting for an explanation.

“The urn’s empty,” Dean shrugged. “I already buried him back at the house, right before we left. I dug a hole at the southeast corner and I dumped my gun and my last pack of cigarettes into it. Then I dumped him. He can stay at that house,” Dean concluded. “I only packed what I wanted to bring with us.”

Sam touched his brother gently, ran his hand up and down Dean’s arm.

Dean licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “I can’t tell you how bad I want a smoke right now,” he laughed. “But it’s over now, all of that, it’s over.”

“You really think it’s that simple?”

Dean tapped a finger against his warm beer. “I can try, can’t I?”

Sam smiled, said he could. Laid his head on Dean’s lap and thought about the day they left. Replayed the tape in his head. “Right before we left you said you had to take a piss,” Sam mused. “And I thought you were being dumb, not using the one inside for the last time, but now I remember-” Southeast corner. Upturned earth. Sam sat up. “Dean! You didn’t?”

Dean chuckled shamelessly. “ _Yep._ ”

Sam’s mouth hung open. Dean refused to look at him. What he did wasn’t up for debate, and he wasn’t interested in hearing about how wrong or disrespectful it was. But to his surprise Sam didn’t chastise him. In fact, he started to laugh. It was a chuckle at first, tiny. And then it built, a crescendo, until Sam was laughing so hard he was clutching stomach.

Dean watched him, confused, at first, but then relieved. He smiled. And then he laughed too. He laughed like a kid again. It felt like washing himself clean.

Early next morning. The trunk slammed shut, the last of their things packed up. Dean swaggered back after handing the keys to the manager. Gave Sam a Dr Pepper from the vending machine and told him to strap in. Sam got in the passenger side and stuffed the cold can of soda between his legs. Pulled the seatbelt across his chest.

The door slammed shut as Dean crawled inside. He never bothered with the seatbelt no matter how many times Sam nagged him. Slid the keys into the ignition and looked over at his brother. “Ready kiddo?”

Sam settled back into the vinyl seats with a sigh. Stared out the window. Searched the horizon for their future. “What are we even gonna do?” he asked suddenly.

Dean considered the question. “Well. We’ll probably be living out of a motel room for a few weeks till I land a job and get my first paycheck. I know dad left us money but that’s for your college, and don’t fight me over it either. Then I guess we can…look into something more permanent. Maybe by Christmas we’ll be settled. And I can like, I don’t know, get us a tree or something.”

Sam nodded.

“And _then_ , you go back to school, and you fucking blow my mind with your grades or I swear to God-“ Dean let the threat linger.

Sam smirked. “Are you gonna like, withhold sex from me or something?”

“Well, let’s not get hasty now,” Dean said.

Sam laughed. Ragged. Had some emotion behind it and it surprised him. Ducked his head and wiped at his eyes.

Dean went quiet. He hated the alarm bells ringing in his head every time his little brother even frowned. “Sammy?”

“Sorry,” Sam said. Took a deep breath. “It’s just, my whole life stopped after that fire. I stopped. Time stopped. I just sort of…froze. That’s what it felt like in Douglas County all that time, removed from the world. I was waiting. Just sitting and waiting. I waited for so long, that’s all I knew how to do. That’s all my life was. I was so numb to the future. I couldn’t let myself think about it.”

“But you got out,” Dean reminded him.

“Right,” Sam said. “And then I was with you, and I thought the wait was over. But then…it wasn’t. ‘Cause I was still waiting. For us. Your dad. The house.”

“But now you don’t have to wait anymore,” Dean said gently.

Sam still wiped at his eyes, head hung low, embarrassed by his emotion. “I don’t remember what that feels like,” he admitted.

Dean sat back in his seat, reached out and messed up Sam’s hair affectionately. “It feels like this,” he said and turned over the Impala’s engines. She roared to life around them. “Long as you got me, Sammy, then Baby’s got both of us. And we’ll keep rollin’. Wherever, whenever. We’ll keep going.”

“You sound like a rock song,” Sam observed, smiled.

Dean threw his car into reverse, braced his arm against Sam’s seat as he looked out the back. “Hell yeah, I do,” he said with grin.

They backed out of the Tri-State Inn, merged onto I-40 and headed west.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to those of you who thought this would be 18 chapters. It was a surprise for me as well. Things I thought were going to happen (mostly Dean moping about more) I ended up cutting. So it ends at 17.
> 
> I want to thank everyone that's sustained me from the beginning to the end with this project. And that includes everyone who has left a kudos or a comment, and especially those who have consistently commented. I appreciate your time and your patient and your love <3
> 
> I also want to thank my betas [jerseygirl324](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JerseyGirl324/pseuds/JerseyGirl324) and [drowsyfantasy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/drowsyfantasy/pseuds/drowsyfantasy). Thank you for wading through my mess and making something coherent out of it, and thanks for always being honest when I needed it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone else who'se been patient with me from the beginning. I hope you enjoy the ending!


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